


Becoming Real

by Caidyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:44:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caidyn/pseuds/Caidyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's sudden death leaves Sherlock devastated and alone with the child he and John had adopted. DI Lestrade steps in to try and help the pair out in their time of grieving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these lovely characters I'm writing about and Moffat won't let me own BBC's Sherlock no matter how much I beg and plead and promise to throw the characters off of buildings.
> 
> The title isn't mind as well. I would like to thank the person for it but I can't put their URL nor can I put the link to the quote that she gave me for the title. So all I can really say is thank you so much for giving me a lovely title based off of a quote from the Velveteen Rabbit. Since I can't put more than that please message me if you want to know who the amazing person is that's responsible for supplying me with these amazing things.

So many times they had talked about it, always planning for the what-if's as John had called them. Such as who call, where he'd get buried, and what to do after everything got finished, such as moving on for the sake of Sherlock's sanity as well as Hamish's. Never in his life had the detective actually thought it would happen, that his husband, the man he'd said he'd spend the rest of his life with, would be gone. The news had been delivered to him at 8:37 in the morning. Two men had been let up by Mrs. Hudson -- the woman had thought it had been a case for him -- and right away he had known it had something far less delightful than that from the stiff posture and somber look on their faces.

"I'm so sorry," the first had said, a genuine look of sadness crossing his face for a brief second.

"There's nothing we can bring back to bury," the other had explained.

"You should be honored. He saved many people by doing at he did," the first had added on.

With another apology they had seen themselves out for Sherlock felt too weak to stand up do it himself. The nicely dressed soldiers seemed used to the reaction, somewhat grateful as well seeing that he hadn't broken down into a fit of tears. Silence filled the flat and the hole quickly forming in his chest. Plans would have to be put in place with a calm mind, not one crowded by grief. Calm was filling him, but the kind that came before a storm.

Hamish would have to be told -- Hamish Watson-Holmes, their four-year old son they had adopted around their third anniversary as a freshly born and oh-so perfect. Their son that was still young enough to call John, Daddy and Sherlock, Papa, yet smart enough to be placed in primary school not nursery school like most children would be at his age, happily learning shapes, colors, and writing, something their little boy had begun to master at the age of two.

Hamish was going to be devastated.

With a shaky hand Sherlock pulled out his phone, only knowing one number that he could text for  
anything. Lestrade. The DI had been good friends with John, someone who came over to their house for dinner and had been John's best man their wedding. Sherlock trusted the man because John had truly made it so.

_I need you to pick Hamish up from school. -SH_

_Why? What's going on? GL_

It was rare for Sherlock to pull Hamish out of school; he saw school as important since it was something that was going to get his son a good job at some time in the future. John had always told him he was stupid to think ahead that far in life when Hamish was four -- Bloody four! he would have exclaimed -- and did have his whole life ahead of him. That had been one thing they had fought about more than they wanted to admit to each other. He allowed a sigh, feeling his phone vibrate again as he sat in his chair. There was no will power in him to pick it up, his hand heavier than anything he had ever lifted in his life. The motivation to even do a simple task was weighing him down more than he could have ever imagined. But, as always, he found a way to do the impossible -- no, the improbable.

_Sherlock, are you in trouble? GL  
I'm going to pick Hamish up but explain to me, alright? Simple yes or no will work fine. GL_

_Yes. I'll tell you. -SH_

Lestrade deserved that after all. They had worked together since had been a pretentious teen, waltzing in on crime scenes unannounced and sometimes high as a kite when going on. Only way he had been able to do what he had planned to do since the age of thirteen was kick his habit. And he had... mainly. Some relapses but nothing as bad as it had been before. Since he and John had married he hadn't taken it. Seven years sober. According to Lestrade he was still pretentious but at least got announced now when he came on, which people still didn't enjoy very much.

Not that it mattered now.

He tossed his phone in the direction of the couch so not to worry about it, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees and hands over his face, hiding himself from the world around him. It was all too loud with the silence, eating and picking at him, forcing him to acknowledge more than he already had that the man he loved had died in some foreign country defending it for a shit war that had no real reason besides gas. He was going to punch Mycroft for that one upon their next meeting. John had died, not in his arms, but throwing his body over a damn bomb and having everything of him obliterated, down to the dog tags. All they had to go off of was the people who had seen his last heroic act.

"God damn your hero complex," he said, more like shouted, to himself with a sharp movement of his hand turning into a fist to connect with the arm of his chair in a hammer strike.

One hand still remained over his face to hide it from prying eyes as tears prickled in them to their own accord. By the time Hamish and Lestrade arrived they'd be bloodshot either from his crying or from holding it in for too long. He knew Lestrade would go to the worst -- another relapse -- to ignore the idea that John Watson had died. The position he was in stayed that way until he heard the door open from below and a cheery greeting from Mrs. Hudson while Hamish bounded up the stairs, probably extremely excited that he was getting out of school for the rest of the day, not to mention until the funeral was planned out and over.

Sherlock saw Hamish and knew that his easy assumptions of his son's character had been correct. A bright and happy smile was plastered on his face, lighting up his pale features that was only accented by the black hair that sat atop his head in a mop of hair. Clothes were perfectly picked out and definitely not appropriate for the weather with how thin they were, something John would have scolded him for. The small hands were clutched around the straps of his bag in an excited style until his son's deep blue eyes met his face and their eyes connected. An instant understanding was forged and the smile, his son's beautiful smile, disappeared in a flash.

"Papa, what's going on?"

Their eyes stayed locked as he just looked at his little boy. Now w was he going to be able to lie to him, not even for a moment. Hamish pulled his backpack off, letting it drop to the ground without a car for what was inside it like he usually would have done. The boy went to his father and climbed up on top of his lap, already nestling into him out of the new anticipated bad news.

Downstairs he heard Lestrade milling around, pacing across the space of the floor in front of the stairs. Stressed, worrying about the news that the detective was going be delivering to the pair. An absent hand went down Hamish's back to hold onto him a bit better and pull him close his chest. Sherlock finally heard those tell-tale signs of the stairs creaking under weight as the DI ascended.

Lestrade entered a few moments later, the usual clothes on his body that marked he had been at work, probably dropping everything in his haste to get there. "Signing things," Sherlock questioned in a bored tone, getting a frown from the man. There was no usual excitement to at least be deducing something. It was already a heads up that something was wr and he was just putting off telling the news. "Ink on your fingers. From that temperamental pen you use," he added for an explanation.

"Ah." A pause. "Sherlock, you said you would explain what's going on. Now do it."

No nonsense Lestrade. Hamish had perked up a bit to look at Sherlock. Hope was in his eyes that something good was going to come of this bit of news.

"Daddy's not going to be coming home," he said in as level of a voice that he could manage."He got hurt and passed away."

Hamish understood what Sherlock was saying. His eyes were up and on him, the hope slowly fading and drowning away to go somewhere else deep inside him. Merely seconds later the boy began crying. In an attempt to muffle the noise he was drawn closer, face moved to press into the familiar and comforting shoulder of his father. Little arms wrapped around his neck as the wetness grew on his shoulder from those tears.

Upon looking up from tending to his crying boy he noticed that Lestrade was standing there with tense posture that only could be marked down as shock. "I'm going to make tea," the DI said, moving back to the kitchen to get that going. That had always been John's solution to everything, a nice cuppa and it would all be fine. That rarely worked on any occasion it was put into action. Still a comfort.

The noise of someone bustling in the kitchen, getting cups down from their shelves, sugar being brought out milk to make it creamy rather than watery. Somehow the noise soothed Hamish and in the midst of his crying he went to sleep. Sherlock's cheek rested against the top of his boy's head. The warmth that came off him was amazing, reminding him of when Hamish had just been a baby and how that same warmth had put him to sleep when holding his son. None of John's scolding had put an end to that.

Lestrade came back with the tea, two cups and Sherlock's with two sugars and a bit of milk, to the sitting room. The one that was his was set down to the side of him on the little table while the DI hesitated before sitting on the couch. John's chair would have been closer but if the man had dared to sit in it Sherlock would have snapped at last. It was barely nine in the morning and everything had been ruined.

"How did it happen," Lestrade asked cautiously, eyes focused on Sherlock's in the way he focused on a suspect.

The detective's long pale fingers threaded through Hamish's hair out of reflex, needing something to hold onto and play with so he wouldn't go insane. Little ticks from his childhood were coming back with this latest disruption in his life God, he hoped the rocking wouldn't come back; he could deal with fiddling hands as a stim, but not rocking.

"Threw himself over a bomb to protect the people on his team and the civilians around him. They say he didn't feel a thing from the force of the explosion, that if there was any pain he would have only felt it for a moment."

Silence.

It only lasted for minutes until Lestrade broke it again to try to fill it with something other than the pain they were sharing. "I'm so sorry. God, is there anything I can do? ANything I can help with? This is just... awful."

Lestrade ran his fingers through the hair that was completely grey. Another sign of stress in the man's life. Didn't they all feel that?

"No, just, all I need you to do is tell people at the Yard. That and take me from your calling list for difficult cases. You know my methods and, if it comes down to it, you can do it yourself."

It was always serious when Sherlock asked to be taken off of cases. He had done it only a few times in all those years of working with the DI; first when had gone through another withdrawal from drugs right before he and John had met and the man had moved in, the honeymoon of his and John's wedding -- John had requested it as a wedding present instead of going out and buying something that would be rarely used --, and finally when they had adopt Hamish for the first two weeks to get used to having a baby around the flat.

He finally reached over, pulling his hand from his son's hair, to grab the tea waiting for him. In the silence he took a sip, eyes slowly closing. The tea tasted exactly how John had made it. Lestrade had learned well how to make it to the standard of excellence.

When it was off of his mouth he said, "Do you think you could leave? I'd like to have some time alone before Hamish wakes back up. If I need anything, I'll text you."

Lestrade was nodding his head, standing and seeming to just want to please. "I'll check on you tomorrow then. Don't do anything stupid." That standard goodbye was given and off the man went, leaving his tea still steaming where he had set it on the coffee table. From below he heard the door close and as soon as the loneliness had set in his head fell down to rest on his son's.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Sherlock had called in for Hamish to get him out of school before he had woken up, getting the familiar voice of the secretary, Mrs. Lovett, that reacted with sympathy for the news he had to tell her. Hamish could take a week off beginning that day, according to the school's policy for deaths in the family. Then on Wednesday of the next week he would be back in school and his normal routine. He thanked Mrs. Lovett for that -- John had taught him when to say those things since getting on the good side of a secretary might help later in Hamish's life, especially if the boy turned out to be more like Sherlock than anyone had anticipated -- and hung up.

The little boy was still fast asleep upstairs in his bedroom. Sherlock had managed to get him up for a few hours the day before, then Hamish had started nodding off again. In that time span he had gotten Hamish to eat something, an apple that he had found in the back of the fridge and deemed good enough to eat, drink something, tea to warm him up since he was shaking from cold and shock, and then read him a story as he got tucked in, his favorite that was about a wizard named Harry. Hamish had curled up and drifted off around the time that the letters had started flooding house at Number Four Privet Drive to try to tell the ten-year old that he was a wizard. Hamish already had read all the books and John had gotten the movies so the two could watch them together on a Daddy and Son date, not a Papa and Son one since Sherlock would end up shouting at the telly.

It was noon and Sherlock was just waking up himself, still in the sweats that he had been in since the day before. He was cooking up breakfast for he and Hamish, simple eggs that were cooking up fast, filling the flat with the smell and the sizzling sound of them. The eggs got dished out on two different plates, one for him and one for Hamish, when he heard a stirring from upstairs. In a few moments the sleepy face of the toddler came down, rubbing his eyes tiredly to get the sleep out of them.

"how are you doing," Sherlock questioned as he scooped the little boy up into his arms to press him nice and close to let him know without words that he was there. Without a doubt, Sherlock guessed that his son had to be thinking that his Papa might go as well somewhere that he couldn't follow, like Daddy had. It was a common fear for children that knew loss.

"Alright." The word was mumbled into his chest so that it was muffled and he could barely hear it. Hamish was breathing deeply as if he was breathing in Sherlock's familiar smell and fighting back tears at the same time, just so he would seem like a big boy.

"I made some eggs for us. You need to eat at least half, alright? Then we can do what you want and talk about what all this means now that Daddy's gone."

A sniffle sounded that Sherlock could only take as an okay. The boy stayed in his arms as he got taken to the table, sat down in his usual spot, the one meant for John remaining empty for him as if he would return home at any minute.

In silence the two picked at their food, their tangled masses of hair bent as they ate slowly. Hamish had picked up on Sherlock's eating habit and not John's shoveled in bites that kept going until he got kicked under the table for setting a bad example. It was surprising for some that the rude detective had better table manners than the polite doctor.

Hamish finished first with a bit over half the food gone and settling in his stomach. Sherlock looked up next with his own food slightly completed. He wasn't hungry but knew he had to make a good example for his son so Hamish wouldn't rebel against the half the food eaten rule John had set up once they figured Hamish was old enough to feed himself, which had been around age one and a half. Hamish had matured far faster than they had thought he would. The boy picked up on so much that most his age didn't, more even than people in his class did. John had joked around and called Hamish a mini-Sherlock until he realized Sherlock didn't like it.

"Come on and help me do the dishes. Scrape the food into the trash then bring the dishes to me."

He turned the water on once the plates were in his hand to get the rest of the food off. Hamish watched as Sherlock cleaned, putting the semi-clean dishes in the dishwasher for later. "Now let's get you into the shower," the detective said as he again picked the boy up to take him upstairs to his bathroom.

Sherlock mainly sat outside of the shower on the toilet, waiting for the boy to stick his head out so he could was Hamish's hair. Though Hamish felt he was older than he really was, he wasn't and couldn't do certain things like the other kids in his class could. Once the boy finished and the water was off, Sherlock helped dry him off and dress him.

"Where is it that you want to go," he questioned, walking down the stairs with Hamish trailing behind him while they went to Sherlock's room to go and allow him to get ready. To save time he simply combed the knots out of his hair then dressed in his typical clothes that looked like a larger version of Hamish's. "We could read, watch your favorite show, or--"

"I want to go to a park." Hamish crossed his arms over his chest, giving him a look that said there was no budging him in another direction. "Daddy's park. I want to go to Daddy's park."

All Sherlock could do was give a nod. He was going to have to take Hamish there. "There's no equipment to play on. We could just sit on a bench and talk about things."

Hamish agreed and off they went. Sherlock thought while taking him was about how this was John's job. John had talked about the tough things, the things that were difficult and would make an impact on their lives. His husband had been so much better at those things than he was. John always had known when to do the right comforting gesture or when to say something that dispelled all fear, while Sherlock was a bumbling idiot that made things worse. All he knew was that by the end of this time in the park they were both going to feel worse over things.

The park was quiet considering the time of day. Usually the place was bustling with people looking for some peace and quiet while on their short lunch break. Today it wasn't so. Hamish's tiny had remained in his as they walked through the park towards where John had liked to go. It seemed like the best place for them to go with the subject they'd be pondering.

There was a bench seeming to be waiting for them. Nothing was on it so he went right to it with Hamish having to walk quickly to keep up with him. Sherlock sat, pulling Hamish onto his lap. His eyes darted around the park, gathering up as much as he possibly could of the area surrounding him; there was a couple kissing, a man walking his dog, a couple of moms taking advantage of the nice weather and having a jog while the kids were at school. Those were the little things at he pointed out to his son as they sat together. One arm was around the boy's waist so they were pressed together, back against chest.

"What happened to Daddy?"

Hamish's voice was small, tiny, a just a whisper loud enough so no one passing by would be able to listen in. Sherlock focused in on the wide, deep blue eyes that were asking for answers to his questions that were a bit over his head.

"Daddy saw something that was going to hurt innocent people," Sherlock whispered, "And he didn't want that to happen, so he decided to save him by allowing the thing to take his life instead of theirs."

He couldn't deny how his voice was thinking, how filled with emotion he was. John's death had shaken him more than he would ever have thought. Seven years together married, plus two years split between friendship and dating. Sherlock looked away from his son for a few seconds to calm himself down again so he could stay level through the questioning.

"What was going to hurt people?"

"A thing called a bomb. When it explodes it launches things towards people and hurts them, sometimes kills them," he answered.

"Like it did with Daddy?"

"Yes."

Silence settled between them ag as they started people watching with no real point or purpose to it. Some looked back, feeling self-conscious about someone watching them. Hamish was more of pondering than thinking about everything about the person they saw for only a few seconds. That was more of what Sherlock did. Tearing people apart in his mind was the most therapeutic thing for him to do, as he had learned in his teens.

"Am I going to get another Daddy?"

That innocent and childlike look on Hamish's face threw him off guard. Sherlock stared at the boy blankly for few long minutes. This was when John would have chimed in with a, "Why would you think that?" But Sherlock wasn't John, not in a longshot.

"No," Sherlock said, "I won't get you another Daddy. One day if I find that right person, I may remarry, but you will /never/ have another Daddy unless /you/ want them to be it. I would never make you accept someone as that role in your life unless you want them to."

Hamish had to take a few minutes to wrap his mind around the theory of not having a Daddy. He'd always had one after all but not anymore, not since Papa had told him that Daddy was gone and dead, never coming home. The thought was foreign to him. "But what if I want a Daddy?" The were hysterics creeping into his voice, that he was about to start bawling soon over this. Right away Sherlock's hand move over Hamish's back try to soothe him.

"For now I'm going to be your Papa and your Daddy. I hope that's going to be okay with you. I'm going to be doing the best I can at it, but I know I'll never be like Daddy. Only he can have that job." The hand kept moving up and down, slowly and gently, lightly scratching his back with the movements. "If that's not good enough, there's nothing more I can do about it. You're going to have just me for a long time."

Sherlock already doubted there would be someone else for him in the world. John had been it for him in every sense of the word, and he was fine with thinking that, knowing that from now on he'd be by himself for the most part, especially as Hamish grew up.

They're conversation seemed over so he stood up with the boy in his arms still, simply taking him back to the flat. While walking he acknowledged that he'd need to contact all the people that he had been told specifically to tell if something happened to John, from Mrs. Watson to Harriet, the woman who would probably relapse after all the progress she had done at being sober. Sherlock opened the front door and went up the stairs. Hamish got let down and he took off into the flat so he could find something to do. There was a noise of surprise from the toddler that made Sherlock hurry into the sitting room where Lestrade awkwardly stood, holding a mysterious looking casserole in his hand.

"Just thought I'd stop by and visit. See how you're doing, yeah? And make sure that you're not going hungry."

Sherlock barely nodded his head, not feeling up to saying words that were unneeded.

"Maybe I could watch Hamish for a bit while you do what you need to do?"

That was a thought. "Yeah," the detective murmured, "That'd be good"

The DI immediately snapped to his task and Sherlock went back to his bedroom to make those calls, door securely closed and a hand resting on his forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock turned his mobile over in his hand, dreading all the phone calls he was going to have to make. That urge to just pass it off to someone else was filling him up, but there was no one to pass it off to. He set the phone down on the bed beside him and stood to go and lock the door so no one would be able to come in unless they were tall enough to reach above the door for where he kept the spare key. When he came back, he laid down on the bed with his eyes fixed to the ceiling. John wasn't going to be able to take the responsibility of this off his shoulders again. The messy covers only reminded him that the bed was too large for just himself. He had counted on someone helping him fill it.

From outside the room he heard Lestrade and Hamish talking, laughing, and probably playing who knew what. All he knew was that his boy was having a good time after the serious conversation the two had. Lestrade had to be good with kids since he had three of them himself with that ex-wife the man never talked about anymore. Bad divorce, he knew that much. He'd met the kids once at his and John's wedding but, for the life of him, couldn't remember their names. That was John's job. He listened to his son for a few moments before the mobile was back in his hands and he was dialing Mrs. Watson's number.

The conversation between them felt to drag on for ages. The elderly woman asked after him and Hamish first, checking up on them since she cared for him far more than any family he had to call his own. Finally the talk turned to something else, that being John. Sherlock was the one who got all the information concerning her son and he was the one to pass it along, though he often forgot to. He hesitated before giving that damn news. Minutes of silence passed where they both tried to process the information, then Mrs. Watson been crying. They were horrible, wracking sobs that Sherlock sat though, waiting for them to end though they lasted forever, even longer than the silence before them had. Questions were asked once the woman had calmed down and Sherlock gave the answers. None of them were good, especially when talk came around of where John was going to be buried. He was going to be buried in London, at a little place they had picked out. A plot for John, one for Sherlock, and, if anything happened to Hamish, one for him too.

Feeble goodbye were given and they hung up. Sherlock sighed softly, putting his face in his hands so he could cradle it. It was comfortable, needed, for him at the moment. The noise coming from the living room had grown much louder, so much more annoying. It was a little piece of hell. To try to keep the noise away, he crawled onto the bed further, toeing off his shoes and pulling those already tangled covers over himself. A deep sorrow washed over his body as he lay there in the semi-silence that swallowed him home. Just as silent tears began going down his cheeks, finding that they were wet. It was something he hadn't done in years, probably since he was a teen. There were highs and lows in the noise outside his little cave, something that he just laid and listened to without a care for what might be going on out there. His little moment was needed and he found himself nodding off with tears drying in tracks on his cheeks that couldn't be wiped away with a lazy sweep of his arm.

Some time later he roused from his sleep by the sound of a key turning the lock and then the door opening completely. Bleary eyes followed in the door's suit and took time to focus on who had come in. "Lestrade, what are you doing?" He heard the DI scoff. That really didn't answer his question. The blankets next came from his body, followed by that stream of light that made him groan. "Bloody hell," he muttered as he sat himself up, "Where's Hamish? Did you just leave him out there on his own?"

Another scoff, followed by, "Do you really think I would do that? He may seem older, but he's still four. I put him to sleep in his room for a nap and Mrs. Hudson will watch him for a bit." Lestrade walked from the window to Sherlock and sat beside him. There was a look of pity that Sherlock honestly wanted to smack off. Pity was the worst thing anyone could do for him most learned the hard way. So, in a groggy fashion he moved away from Lestrade, blankets restricting his legs from moving too far away. The DI sighed and swung his legs on the bed with his head against the headboard and hands resting on his stomach as he glanced around the room that the consulting detective slept in.

Sherlock only knew that all this was pissing him off. He wasn't one to curse -- Mummy had always told Father when he had and hell had been unleashed on him -- but, God, did he want to. Cursing was said to help relieve stress, and he was rather stressed at the moment. "Why are you getting Mrs. Hudson to watch him? You're not leaving this lovely flat so soon, are you," he questioned, deciding not to curse at Lestrade who had to be hurting just as much as he was. But by that smile on the DI's face, he knew that something more was going on. "You're going to take me out, aren't you?" The look on Lestrade's face morphed into a grin as he got up to bring him a moist washcloth so Sherlock could wipe his face clean.

"Still got it, I see," the man remarked as he watched Sherlock meticulously cleaned himself. "I was worried that you weren't going to pick up on my little clues."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Like could miss the obviousness of them." They both knew ta he almost had, but neither said a word about it. "Now where are you taking me? St. Bart's?"

"No, Scotland Yard. There's a little case I want you to look at."

"And you couldn't have brought it here?"

"Nope."

Sherlock sighed and stood up, going his closet so could put on some fresh clothes instead of going out in the rumpled and slept in ones he was wearing. He didn't change his whole outfit, but just his dress shirt. It was replaced with a black one. He heard Lestrade leave as he buttoned it up and as he shrugged on the suit jacket all over again the man was back and waiting there for him to finish getting ready.

"It's nice out, you know, so you don't need a jacket," the DI said, feet shuffling as he moved aside so Sherlock could pass. Sherlock continued on with the man behind him. "You want a cab or would you rather walk there? Fresh air might do you some good."

"I'd rather take a cab. It'll be faster this time of day than walking. Take my word for it."

There came a sigh from Lestrade but he nodded anyways as they left the flat with a sad smile from Mrs. Hudson who had watched them from where she was sitting in the living room. She was dressed in black as well, showing that she was mourned for John alongside Sherlock and many people who had been fond of him. Lucky for them the press hadn't caught wind just yet of the doctor's death. If they had, there would be no way to leave the flat without police there to keep the people back. He'd give it a few days before getting on John's blog -- the only thing that people read -- and put something up about it. The dynamic duo, as they had been named, would be no more. A heartbreaking ending to a story that had warmed hearts of many. He would be mourning along with people John had touched without ever meeting them.

Sherlock hung back with his arms over his chest while Lestrade hailed them a cab. He got in with Lestrade, the DI holding the door open for him, and leaned back as their destination was given and they sped off down the mainly empty street. People were in their offices, not out on the town. He looked out the window at the few people who were still outside; it was about the same as earlier, young couples, parents that didn't work, a few teens that looked like they were skipping classes. They all walked near each other, never really seeing the other. It was quite amazing to see just how much it seemed people had stopped caring about their fellow-man in these modern times.

The driver stopped in front of the Yard and Sherlock looked out the window at the building he went to often enough over the course of what had to be thirty years, more than that now he was sure. Perhaps even pushing forty. Sometimes he forgot that he was in his forties, not twenty-nine as he had been when he had met John down in the morgue. It was amazing to think that it had been fourteen years since they had met; two years of friendship, three years for his "death", two for dating, and seven for marriage. Eleven years with John no matter what way he looked at it. Lestrade nudged him, a worried look on his face that Sherlock responded to with a hand up to try to brush off Lestrade. He didn't want pity and he didn't want anyone worrying about him in his current state.

Sherlock got out and slowly trailed behind Lestrade that led the consulting detective in. "I told everyone. They might treat you a bit different," Lestrade said. Soon he discovered that it was an understatement. Donovan was there and she merely gave him a sad look, not the customary greeting of, "Oh, look, the freak's here." Anderson couldn't say anything either. He couldn't even meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. Did he really look that bad? The most washing he had done that day was when Lestrade had handed him that washcloth. Clothes had to be a bit wrinkled. Eyes either bloodshot or abnormally bright from his crying as well. At least he could understand their looks of sympathy. Didn't make him like it any, still.

He was taken into a room, a conference room from the look of it, and the door shut behind him so that he and Lestrade were alone in the windowless room. On the table was a simple case file. The pages were yellowing and it smelled of dust when he started flipping through it. Not to mention the pictures of the crime scene looked awful considering the quality of pictures that could be just taken by a mobile these days. All in a he could tell it was a case that had long gone cold. He didn't even have to look at the date stamped on it to know what it was. Lestrade had picked it out for him just so he wouldn't lose his sanity over thinking the things that he was facing now.

"So, are you going to take it," Lestrade asked, leaning back in his chair with his eyebrows raised expectantly as Sherlock continued flipping through the file that did seem a bit interesting, occasionally glancing up to the man. "I'd around really like it if you could. Been sitting around since I became detective inspector all those years ago. Be a help if I got justice after a good thirty years."

Lestrade knew Sherlock had said no cases but it would seemed that it was going to change. "Fine," the consulting detective huffed as he sat down and started spreading out all the things for himself to look at while he did this damn thing. He really wanted to smack that look from Lestrade's face, even more than before, but the case was more important. The world faded away as he sank into his mind, figuring this simple mystery. In the end he had come to one conclusion that made sense with all the data before him.

"Father did it. Angry with marrying someone he didn't approve of so he decided to give her a good lesson and it got out of hand." Sherlock pushed the case towards the center of the long table with a smug look of his own set on his face.

The DI seemed to test someone, probably a man on duty, to go and arrest the suspected killer as well as the information they would need to question him. That action took a few moments since as the technology changed, Lestrade just seemed to get worse at it.

"Alright, Sunshine. Have you eaten today? You know what? I really don't want to know. How about Angelo's, on me?


	4. Chapter 4

Angelo had died long ago, but his son ran it and still gave Sherlock a bit of a discount when he came in, especially if he brought the family along with him. So, needless to say, he went often enough to get Hamish a meal that he didn't have to cook or pay for himself.

"Yeah, that sounds fine," Sherlock said, ignoring the name Lestrade had just called him. He wasn't fond of nicknames and the only person who could call him things other than his name was John. Anyone else would get snapped at if he was in the right kind of mood for doing something like that. "Let's get going. Tell Anderson and Donovan when you get some time, to act normally. I'd rather them shout abuse at me then not even look me in the eyes."

Lestrade shook his head as he got up from the chair, groaning as he popped his back with a mutter of how old he was. "You know they're just showing their respect for you, right? Everyone liked John around here and nobody's happy to hear that he won't be coming back this time around. You're just going to have to put up with it. At least try to play the part of a normal grieving husband."

Sherlock's jaw tensed and he gave a good punch to the DI's arm. "I am a grieving husband, I'm just doing it in my way. There's no right or wrong way to grieve, just how others stereotype it naturally. Now, if you would excuse me, I'm going back to my flat so I can watch after my son." He shoved past the man, crossing his arms over his chest and storming from the room, past officers that all seemed to know what was going on in his personal life. He could hear steady footsteps behind him, following him, as he left the Yard. He stood by the street, eyes scanning for a cab, when Lestrade came to stand by him, running his tongue over his lips in that nervous tick the man had for the longest time.

"I shouldn't have said that, so I'm sorry that I did. Everything for given Sherlock?" The consulting detective looked over to the man standing beside him, running a sharp eye over Lestrade's body as if examining him to judge him of his worthiness.

"Fine. Now hail us a cab so we can get going to Angelo's. Wouldn't want to miss getting a free meal since I'm not cooking anytime soon." Lestrade chuckled and took a step forward so he was on the curb, hand raised in the international sign to get a cab. One stopped in front of them by the free space of the curb, and Lestrade, being ever polite, opened the door so Sherlock could get in before getting in himself. Sherlock gave the address once they were both settled and off they went, him leaning back into the seat. The path was familiar and he knew each turn that they went down on the streets of London. Lestrade hummed some tune under his breath as the cabbie drove. Within a minute's time they were there and Lestrade got out to hold open the door for Sherlock so he could slide out.

Ahead of the DI, the consulting detective strode, heading straight for the restaurant. the smell of food and the warm atmosphere hadn't changed from the first time he had been inside. Sherlock saw a familiar waiter and put his hand up to signal them for a greeting and then pointed to the table by the window. It was the one that he always took and even forced people already eating there to move so he could eat there himself. It was a habit of his to keep doing the same thing over and over, including sitting at the same place. He smiled a little as he settled into his usual side while Lestrade slid in the one opposite him. There was silence at the table while the waiter got some water for them. Within a few moments the current owner, Andrea, came over with a large smile on his round face.

"And look who we have here! Mr. Holmes and a friend. No son with you tonight? Don't blame you, sometimes a man needs a break from family." His words got interrupted by a deep, honest, laugh, that came from the pit of his large stomach. "But don't worry. I'll have the kitchen whip something up for your little tyke. His usual, right? I'll bring it out for you when you're all done here. And you, Sherlock? What is it I can get you? Usual sound fine? We got a fresh shipment of vegetables yesterday and I'm sure the lasagna will taste amazing! And your friend, what can I get or him?"

Lestrade only had wide eyes as he looked at Andrea, clearly taken aback from the fast speech the man had given. "Oh. I'll have some chicken alfredo," he said, resituating himself on the seat with one leg over the other.

"No, no! The cook we have in tonight is awful at making that. I /cannot/ allow you to put yourself through that experience with a meal like that. Now, how does spaghetti bolognese sound to you? Good? Good! One vegetarian lasagna and one spaghetti bolognese. Add on to ta a children's order of our homemade beef and cheese ravioli for our little Hamish. It's going good tonight. The ravioli's are one of the few things the cook can make." Andrea laughed his booming laugh then walked off to go and give whoever this cook was the order to make.

Lestrade was silent for a few moments before nervously laughing. "He likes to talk, doesn't he? Never lets a man get another word in. At least I like spaghetti bolognese."

"Not as bad as Angelo. Well talked as much as him, but Andrea's less huggy, luckily." One good telling from Sherlock when the man had been younger, just another waiter in the crowd, had gotten him to stop that overly fond habit he had caught on from his father. "The food will be on the house so don't try to pay him. Tip him, yes, but don't try to give money for the food." John had tried on multiple occasions and it always ended with a semi-playful and semi-serious from whoever was serving them.

The DI merely nodded his head he focused on the street outside. Now it was bustling, really getting moving, out there. People were getting off work and some were making their way to their night jobs. Everyone looked ahead, not paying attention to the pair at the window watching them.

"Hamish misses John. He told me that but doesn't want to tell you. He's afraid that something's going to happen to you next. Sherlock, you really need to tell him you're going to be there. He doesn't have a solid knowledge that you're going to stay around with him," Lestrade said softly. He was trying not to speak too loudly if someone around them would hear and recognize that the world-famous Sherlock Holmes was in this little Italian restaurant. It wasn't time for it to get out about John.

"I'll talk to him about it tomorrow. When I get home I just want some time alone."

Lestrade shook his head, leaning forward so they could speak more intimately. "No, you've got to talk to him about all this /now/, not later. The longer you wait, the worse it's going to get and the less he's going to believe you when you actually tell him." The man's eyes flickered over Sherlock's for a few moments. "You know it."

"Tomorrow. By the time we get back it'll be late. Hamish will probably already be asleep up in his bedroom. Waking him would ruin his sleeping schedule, not to mention keep him up for the night. And I think him waiting to hear it would be ten times better than messing him up for days."

There was a look of disapproval on the man's face. By now the consulting detective was used to getting it. "And what about the years of psychological damage that not knowing the small fact of your permanency with him? Psychological damage is the worst. I'm sure you know that. You really need to tell him, and in person, not calling him up and hoping for the best."

Well that shot his plan to hell. Sherlock's fingers tangled through his messy curls as he pushed his hand through his hair. The curls tangled around his fingers, snagging them when he just wanted to not worry about the way his hair felt or how it probably looked like he hadn't showered for the day. Without bothering to push his fingers the rest of the way through, he just withdrew it and let his hand fall limp in his lap. "Yes, yes. I'll tell him. If he's up I'll do it tonight, but if not, it'll happen tomorrow. Happy?"

"Not unless you actually do it." Lestrade was leaning back, hand over his brow. The two men were stubborn on what they wanted to happen, meaning that neither party would make the other happy. "But, whatever. Not like I'm a parent to three children that were all once as small as Hamish and thought the same way about things that he does about death and the way that things that were thought to be permanent, really aren't. Take my word or leave it."

"You sound like a bloody child psychologist. Still remember those things you went to your counsellor about, then? Wait, don't answer that. A rhetorical question after all." He was leaning back as well against the plush booths, hand over his own brow that he dropped in favor of watching the streets. "I'll talk to him when I get to it. You don't have any say in the matter at hand. You're really just an outsider."

The DI's jaw clenched but before he could retaliate the steaming food was brought out to them. One plate of the lasagna with a cheese sauce. He could see the broccoli, carrots, and spinach in it, that was main vegetables shown and advertised. It was set in front of him while Lestrade's meal was set down as well. There was a mound of pasta on it with the red sauce that reeked of fresh tomatoes and seasoning, a couple meatballs off to the side of the plate. "The ravioli will be out when you're both done," Andrea said, beaming; he always brought the food out himself when Sherlock Holmes was dining with them. "Tell John hello for me. I haven't heard you talk about him much. Letters must not be coming through, then. Just tell him not to forget about us here in London while he's off in Afghanistan. I expect him to not act like a stranger once he gets back."

As Andrea left he got a big clap on the back from him that barely registered because of how numb he suddenly felt. If he had been at all hungry before, all thoughts of food were out of his head. With Andrea gone he quietly excused himself from the table and walked back to the men's restroom. One person was in it using the urinal and he just passed him, heading straight to the stall, the large one meant for people who needed the extra room. And he needed room. Sherlock locked the stall door and waited until he heard the only other man in the room with him leave so he could sit on the ground, hands against his face. The reality was seeping in again that John was gone and this wasn't any other day like Lestrade had made it out to be with that damn case. He had forgotten that barely a day had passed since the news had gotten to him. Tomorrow he would have to start the process for the funeral that would have to happen sooner or later.

From outside his little world the door to the bathroom opened and closed, the sound of the lock clicking into place. Slow footsteps walked through the room until they stopped in front of his stall. Three slow knocks sounded with a, "Open up Sherlock. Sitting on the ground is going to do you no good. Food's outside waiting at the table and I don't want to eat alone. I'm pretty sure Andrea'll come out and talk to me again all about the shit cook he has." The man laughed at his own little joke while Sherlock did unlock the door for him. With one hand Lestrade pushed it on open to see Sherlock still on the ground but only have moved closer so he could unlock the damn door to stop the DI's pestering.

"If you want me up, you're picking me up," Sherlock teased, mustering up a smile to try and not let the thing fall flat. He got a look from Lestrade that seemed examining, like the man was judging him like one would judge a child tell a great lie about something, considerate yet with a hint of disbelief. In a few more moments hands we under his armpits and hoisting him up to a standing position.

"You really have to put on some weight," Lestrade muttered, letting go of Sherlock now that he was up. "So, let's go out and get you that lasagna."

But Sherlock didn't move. He stood there and looked at Lestrade before putting his arms around the man's neck and hugging him. John had taught him back when they were first dating that hugging was something appropriate to do when grateful for something and the person was friends with him. And he was grateful for Lestrade. So he didn't want to use words and this was the best way in his opinion. When he pulled back after the appropriate amount of time he smiled curtly and passed the pan as he left the stall to go to the table. Sure enough the food was still there and he sat at the table, picking his for up and taking a small bite.

The pasta was soft and the sauce as creamy as always. Vegetables were definitely fresh from the crunch the broccoli still had. Sherlock allowed a small sigh of pleasure to leave him over the food he always had enjoyed. It really was one of the better things the cook made. Lestrade was back a few minutes later and fell upon his own food. Was he even tasting it? Part of Sherlock's mind doubted it from how fast the man was chewing. Under the tale he placed a well-aimed kick to Lestrade's shins, causing him to yelp and lean down to hold his shin.

"What the hell was that for," Lestrade angrily asked, food now forgotten. "I wasn't doing anything wrong Am I not allowed to eat now?" There was a half-joking tone to the man's voice but anger shone in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't upset over seeing it.

"Well, Lestrade--"

"You know you can call me Greg. I think we should be past the point where you just call me by my last name after all these years."

"Well, /Greg/, you're eating so fast. Looks disgusting.That was my way of telling you to slow it down. So, slow down and stop shoveling in food like it's your last meal because you resemble a pig when you do it."

Lestrade... /Greg/, gave him a look but did listen. Sherlock went back to eating, counting his bites up to the proper thirty-two that someone should do before swallowing the mush down. Thirty-two bites made the food easier to break down further in the stomach and allowed him to get all the lovely taste from it. His parents, being ever so prim and proper, had taught him that it was the right way to eat and it had just stuck in his mind over the years. The nice thing about this method was that he got full quickly and stopped when he was done. As usual that was around the halfway point and he pushed away his plate when that happened.

Greg finished his plate and sat back, groaning with his hands on his stomach to show he had overeaten. That was what eating slowly prevented; you felt yourself getting full and not it hitting you and it being too late. One day people were going to see the good in his ways and follow in his lead.

The water that had seated them came over with one takeout box full of ravioli that would last Hamish for a day and an empty box he could use to put the rest of his food in. Sherlock did just that then their plates were cleared. A wave from Andrea let them know they could just go ahead and go. Before leaving Lestrade put down a few pounds for the tip.

They walked together from the restaurant, Sherlock carrying the food and not getting a cab. Part of the reason was so Lestrade could work off a bit of the food he had eaten, resulting in Sherlock getting annoyed at their slow pace. It was nice and dark, traffic slowing down more, by the time they were in front of 221B.

"You talk to him, Sherlock," the DI said, "Try to fix the things you need to. Alright?" Greg gave him a small smile before shoving his hands in his pockets and turning on his heel to walk off. That left Sherlock standing out front with his eyes following the older man as he just left. When Greg was out of sight he turned and opened the door, heading up the stairs to a flat that just felt far too quiet. He pushed open the door to see Mrs. Hudson standing there. She must have heard him coming up.

"He wouldn't go up to his room," she started, voice hushed. "Stubborn as you are. Lord help us all if keeps up that streak. But he wouldn't go to sleep in his room. I tried multiple times but he just wouldn't."

"Where is he Mrs. Hudson?"

"Your room. You can try to move him, but he wouldn't listen to me."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "It's all fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go downstairs and have your herbal soother. I'll take care of it." The woman smiled and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek as well, hand coming up to pat his other one. He smiled at her before walking back towards his room, stopping in the kitchen to put away the food.

Right in the center of his bed was the small figure of the boy. Compared to the size of the bed alone, Hamish was so very tiny. The toddler hadn't even gotten changed out of his clothes he'd been wearing the day. Sherlock sighed as he walked towards the bed. When he climbed on next to John he began taking off the clothes, starting first with the shoes then up to the shirt and pants. He had to stand up and get out a shirt, one of John's so Hamish might have a bit of comfort, for the boy to sleep in. Sherlock went back to the clothes Hamish was in, carefully handling him so he wouldn't wake him. When he was finished the shirt was put on him and, in the end, Hamish still was fast asleep or at least pretending nicely. Sherlock laid on the bed slowly, turning on his side and began rubbing the boy's back, closing his eyes as he settled into a gentle rhythm.


	5. Chapter 5

The slow hand continued to work up and down his son's back as Sherlock began to drift off to sleep. Slower and slower it went until he soon stopped and turned to his side, draping an arm around Hamish's small waist to draw him closer. Finally, his eyes slipped shut as he fell into a light sleep. It was usual for him to fall into that kind of sleep so he could wake up to hearing anything for when something were to happen. This time he woke up to a very soft whisper of the word, "Papa."

Automatically, his eyes opened, tired and icy colored ones meeting the deep blue ones gazing up at him in the semi-darkness. Dawn was creeping into the room, brightening it with natural light that was only growing more intense by the moment. "What is it Hamish," he asked, moving his hand to run through the mess of dark hair scattered over the top of the boy's head. "Did you have a bad dream? You can tell me all about it."

Bad dreams were common for Hamish to wake up to and his assumption was only confirmed when Hamish's face turned pink and scrunched up as he began to cry softly. Sherlock's arms went around the boy, drawing him close until he felt a bit of wetness against the clothing on his stomach. Not a bad dream then.

It had been ages since Hamish had wet the bed. He sighed softly and got up from the bed with the boy in his arms still. The evidence was there, a large wet spot where his son had laid. "Come on," he whispered into his son's ear, "Let's get you all cleaned up. Next time tell me if you have to go. I'll take you there if you really have to so you don't have an accident like this again."

Sherlock carried out of his room and up the stairs to the boy's room. "You get yourself changed and bring down your clothes so I can put them in the wash with the sheets." On a second thought he pressed a kiss to the top of the boy's head. John had told him to do that so Hamish wouldn't think he was upset with him for having a silly little accident.

After running his thumb and index finger over the soft skin of his son's cheek to get off the tears before they stained his face, he was gone from the room to his own to check the damage done. Only the sheets and comforter needed to get really cleaned, but he would have to do something more to the bed so it wouldn't smell like urine. The bed got stripped, wet things in one pile and dry in another. He changed clothes so the damp ones wouldn't be touching his skin. While in the bathroom he found the cleaner that John had bought for accidents like this.

When he came out with the large bottle and a rag to clean, he saw Hamish standing there, clothes bundled in his arms. He had gotten redressed in some new clothes that were going to get damp as well if he kept holding the wet ones so close to himself.

"You can put them over there," Sherlock said, motioning with the rag towards the wet pile. He climbed on the bed, pouring a bit of cleaner on the rag before pressing it on the mattress and scrubbing. There was a plop from the clothes landing heavily on the pile.

"I'm sorry," the little boy whispered, catching Sherlock's eyes when the man glanced over at him. "I-I di-didn't mea-mean to." And soon Hamish was crying again, face quickly turning pink with his cheeks turning red from him angrily scrubbing at them.

The rag became abandoned on the bed as Sherlock went to him, kneeling in front of the boy to make those tiny hands lower from his eyes so he could try to soothe him like John had always been able to do. "Accidents happen," Sherlock said simply. "I'm not mad at you at all. Now stop crying since there's nothing to cry about. I'll finish cleaning up the bed and then make some breakfast. I went to Angelo's last night, brought you home ravioli from him, beef and cheese. Your favorite, remember? How does that sound?"

As Sherlock's thumb ran over the boy's warm cheeks, Hamish calmed enough so that was just sniffling with hiccups slipping out occasionally. "You go into the kitchen. I'm going to have to going to have to go out today you're going to be with Mrs. Hudson again." Sherlock paused then added, "I just want you to know I'm going to leave later."

Arms went around his neck moments later, clinging to him tight enough so there was no way for him to get free from them. Hamish's face was hidden in his neck and every so often his back moved sharply from a hiccup. They grew frequent, just as they did when Hamish was getting stressed over something. There was no way to get him to calm down now that he was this worked up. So, he stood with the boy held up by one arm, moving him in a way that allowed him to balance on his hip and keep his face hidden away.

Sherlock used one arm to clean after getting up on the bed again, scrubbing as hard as humanly possible. The smell of urine was gone after a few minutes, replaced with the clean smell of detergent. He dropped the rag to the bed and let arm fall flat to his side. It had tired and all he wanted was to lay and rest some. It wasn't even six in the morning yet and he was dead tired. A lovely start to the day that would that would leave him as emotionally and physically drained as he had been the day before.

His head turned, pursing his lips so he could press a quick kiss to the side of Hamish's head. Hiccups were gone and that meant the boy had hopefully calmed himself down some just from the silence and the feeling of being nice and close to someone. The two were similar in that way; Sherlock always could calm down if someone was at least touching him so he would know someone was there.

"Come on. Time to let go of me so I can start the laundry and get your food ready. Andrea packed it really full this time because he knows how much you love them, so I hope you're hungry," he whispered.

A small shake of Hamish's head was the only response he got to his words. The arms tightened around his neck all over again. 

"Hamish." His voice grew stern to show he wasn't kidding around with this. "Let go of me. There are things that I need to do and you're just inhibiting me. Now, let go or I'll have to make you."

Of course he wasn't going to do anything harmful -- he believed children shouldn't be hit, for it made them afraid of the parent, not the punishment itself -- but he did have a trick ready for Hamish. Again, the arms tightened around his neck, successfully cutting off the air and making him gasp for a moment. "You're asking for it," he growling, smiling to signal that he wasn't actually going to do any harm. One arm supported Hamish's bum while the other came up to gently tickle his side. The boy squirmed but didn't let go. It wasn't until Sherlock was going about full power that he used on John when he was being stubborn that Hamish pulled off, giggling and squirming like the happy boy he was.

Sherlock laughed along with him a pressed a loving kiss to his cheek. "Was that really so hard to do?" He lowered his son to the ground then picked up the laundry he was going to do. "Come with me. I'll heat you up some food." Hamish's held on to the hem of his shirt with a small hand as Sherlock walked like he said he was going to.

The washer and dryer was in the kitchen, therefore Hamish let go to sit in his spot while Sherlock went ahead and put everything in. On top of the seat, Hamish glanced around, eyes always ending up on his father. The man busied himself with the machine he'd rather take apart than figure out how to use. It eventually got going with the clothes spinning in a circle with a calming mechanical hum filling the room.

"I'll make half for you," he stated, pulling out the heavy box from where he had put it in the fridge the night before. "Mrs. Hudson can make lunch for you and then I'll get the rest of this made for dinner. I want you to eat all that I make for you, okay?"

He got a small nod out of the boy which he took an alright to his minimal negotiations. With a fork he got the food and put it on a plate that could be microwaved; apparently there were ones that couldn't and after training from John he had learned which was which. The latest experiment housed in there got placed on the shelf designated for them the fridge and he put a couple of minutes on the timer for the food, then let it go.

Next to Hamish, he sat down and looked at the who still didn't look one hundred percent well. "Do you want to tell me what's going on? I want to help you and you need to tell me exactly what to do so I don't make a mistake." That had happened more than once for them. Now they had no one to help solve the little arguments they got into, so it was all up to him to keep the peace. "Lestrade, Daddy's friend who played with you yesterday, told me that you're afraid I'm going to leave you. Is that true?"

For a few moments Hamish's bottom lip quivered, then came the waterworks. No words came out, just the boy nodding his head as he cried uncontrollably, facial expressions screaming that he just wanted to stop, but he couldn't. Sherlock leaned forward automatically, ending up on his knees in front of his son so he would be at his level as he cupped the boy's face in both hands.

"I'll never leave you. Your Papa will always be here for you no matter what. Daddy would have wanted to as well, but it didn't turn out that way." It took him a few moments to calm himself down as he thought of what John would say in this situation. Softly he spoke so Hamish would have to lean in to really hear him when the words came to him, "Somewhere Daddy's watching us. He's sitting around to see you and me, and make sure that we're okay here. He'd want to see us happy, wouldn't he?" That got him a small head nod. "So," he murmured, shuffling closer on his knees and brushing the tears off those pink cheeks, "Whenever you feel alone or sad, remember Daddy's watching you because he loves you so very much. Can you do that for me?"

Another head nod. Sherlock removed his hands and gave Hamish a sincere look as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. "I'm here, too. I'll always be here to listen to you."

He stood up with a soft noise as a few joints popped, making Hamish giggle. Sometimes he thought he was getting a bit too old for all this, then he remembered he had years left of running around after the little tyke, as Andrea called him, who really was only interested in eating at the moment.

The food finished heating up and he brought it over to him, setting it down with a napkin going over the boy's lap so no more laundry would have to get done than there already was. Hamish gripped the provided fork tightly in his hand, munching happily and slowly on his food. Sauce leaked out to the corners of his mouth and a bit hit his chin from the angle he was putting the food in his mouth. When finished, just as he had promised with nothing left on the plate, there was sauce everywhere on his skin except for the hair. Food in his hair had been more during the stage of learning out to feed himself in general. He was definitely going to have to take a shower now.

He brought the dish to the sink and set it in there to do later no matter how much he despised dishes. "You remember how I said you were going to spend time with Mrs. Hudson this afternoon? I changed my mind and you're coming with me. We're going to see a man about Daddy's will."

"What's a will?"

Hamish had wide eyes and Sherlock could help but smile at the first words he had said for the day. Hearing him speak and sound okay was a good thing. What he had said had done the job in making his son feel good about the things going on and comfortable enough to ask questions about it.

"A will is a document that people who are older make. It says what we're going to get of Daddy's things including money and his personal belongings. It's a legal document that has to be followed through with or else we could get in big trouble over not following what he wanted," he explained. "It's like what Dumbledore left for Harry, Ron, and Hermione after he died."

Understandingly, Hamish nodded. Sherlock would have to call the man before they left to explain why there were going to be coming in. While the went upstairs to get Hamish cleaned up, phone in hand to actually make the call, he flipped through the things to do; there was the funeral -- private -- and the possible memorial for the public, the will and contacting people who got things, publicly stating John's death, insurance, payment from the military, health benefits from St. Bart's, and money to sort out. He was feeling stressed by the time Hamish was out of the shower. Again he kneeled on the ground and helped his son dry off, getting a wet kiss on the lips from him right when he needed it most.

Hamish got himself dressed and ready while Sherlock stayed in the bathroom to make the call privately. Their lawyer held it in a file and was very well-trained in keeping things secretive seeing that he was more for celebrities and could be held legally accountable for telling anyone about what was going on. John had picked him out for them and it was a good choice seeing that the man, Mr. Boris Addison, was very good at keeping things private.

Sherlock walked out and saw his son having a bit of problems with his clothes and went over to him to help tug down the oatmeal colored jumper Mrs. Watson had made him last Christmas over his head and get the button on for his black slacks. The combination was so perfect to Sherlock that it made his heart ache and chest tighten over the thought that John wouldn't be able to see this. His eyes focused more on Hamish a few moments later, catching the pout and the book now in his hands. He pieced together that Hamish wanted him to read just a bit more of Harry Potter to him.

He sat on the bed, Hamish following to settle on his lap. The spine cracked as they opened it and Sherlock, honestly wishing he had thought to get his reading glasses, began voicing the characters on the page, doing his best to change his voice when someone else spoke to keep his son engaged in the book as they bonded well into the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

"‘Voldemort didn't understand that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign... to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin.'" Sherlock read Dumbledore's wise words to Hamish, his lips so close to the boy's ear that he only had to whisper.

He held onto the last few pages of the book tightly with his thumb and index finger while the little boy's finger went just under the words he was reading to keep track of where they were in the story. Quietly, Sherlock finished, looking at Hamish when the boy turned his head to look at him. "There," he murmured. "You put this up while I get ready for us to go out."

Mr. Addison knew they were coming -- he had offered his false sympathies over the phone -- around eleven. Seeing that it was around ten-thirty he knew it was time to get ready for a trip to the man with as greasy of a personality as his hair. Needless to say, Sherlock didn't like the man much despite how apparently trustworthy he was.

Hamish hopped up from the bed, allowing his Papa to get up and start getting ready. He soon was in his own room, getting dressed completely in black. One large hand smoothed out the wrinkles the best it could, not bothering to look at his again unshowered appearance. Sherlock wasn't much in the mood for seeing how he looked; messy hair, sad and tired eyes, abnormally pale skin.

He looked like one of those bloody vampires out of a book John made him read for his personal pleasure.

"Papa," the little boy called out from somewhere in the flat.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Can you help tie my shoes?"

His thoughts were off of his own needs in a moment, feet leading him out to the living room where Hamish was on the couch, shoes right in front of him. Sherlock knelt and started putting them on. Gently, his hands held Hamish's foot as he got them on. A bit tight, it seemed; he'd have to get new ones soon. Perhaps he could get Mrs. Hudson to take him after school the next week.

"Remember, Daddy taught you how to do this? Before he left. You cross them over each other and pull one through. Make a loop and bring the other lace through. Do you remember," Sherlock questioned, finishing off with the second shoe before dropping it.

The boy gave his answer by shaking his head from side to side.

No, then.

That was something he or Mrs. Hudson was going to have to teach, preferably the older woman since he didn't have the patience for something like that. 

Sherlock patted his son's leg before standing up and offering out his hand to the boy.

"Come on, now. Let's get going. Didn't I promise you a lunch out?"

"I wanna go to Café Rouge!"

Sherlock chuckled and nodded his head. "Yes, of course we can go there." It had been one of his and John's favorite places to take Hamish; while there they could get a good meal know that their son was as well. "We're going to be near Irving Street after all. Remind me once we get done seeing Boris."

Hamish's head nodded and his arms went up as a signal for getting picked up. Sherlock did just that, holding him close as he slipped on his own shoes on and left the flat. In the current traffic it would take over thirty minutes if they walked but if they took a cab it would take around eighteen. The choice was obvious to him. He stepped forward, raised his hand, and shouted for a cab.

One stopped right in front of them. Familiar cabbie, one that he had helped in the past. Good, he'd get them there fast. Sherlock climbed in with Hamish on his lap, arms around his waist to act like a kind of seat belt for the boy on their ride. He gave the address and sat back as the cab started in the quickest route.

The cabbie started talking, chatting about his life and family. It wasn't something Sherlock really cared about hearing. John would have talked back with the man, inquired over certain things, but Sherlock wasn't the doctor. His fingers drummed on Hamish's stomach as the streets passed them by. Traffic wasn't brutal so they got there rather quickly, even considering his estimate before.

He interrupted the cabbie's -- honestly couldn't remember the man's name since he only had Hamish grinned and offered up a chipper, "Thank you!" as they left.

The cab pulled away from the curb as he just stared at the law firm in front of him. Great. Just great. Bound to be a horrible time while in there. For his own reassurance, he squeezed Hamish around the waist a bit tighter before walking into the nice place that smelled like leather, a sharp cleaning supply, and a disgusting mixture of perfume and cologne. It combined everything he hated.

Sherlock told the woman at the desk who he was and that they were expected before going to sit in one of the plush couches that sank heavily under their combined weight. God, he hated these chairs. Now he knew he needed something to do. Though Hamish seemed fine with sitting there doing nothing, he nudged the boy to silently tell him to get up and grab something.

He got an expert eye roll from the little boy -- now that was something he had picked up from John -- as he got up. Hamish went to look at the things meant for kids for a few moments before going to the magazines laid out for the adults. There really was nothing, but he picked a magazine that was a trashy tabloid. Now those were always fun to read to figure out how desperate someone was to make a quick pound off something ridiculous.

Hamish crawled back on his lap, handing the tabloid to him. He smiled gently at it, deciding just to take it rather than argue over how inappropriate it may be. There was nothing better to do after all. Quietly, he read the boy certain articles that seemed appropriate while the boy followed along with his fingers under the words. 

John had taught him to do that, told him it would help him once he got older and school was harder. Sherlock always countered that school wasn't going to get harder because he was _their_ on and was going to be the smartest little boy anyone had ever seen, besides him, of course. Always had gotten an eye roll over that and a talking to before going to sleep.

"I didn't know you were bringing your son! I would have taken my lunch break faster if I had known that!"

Sherlock's eyes left the page to see the overweight lawyer who looked like a penguin in that suit of his. It was almost enough bring a laugh out of him, but he found a way to hold back as he set the tabloid beside him, balancing Hamish in his arms.

"He decided he didn't want to be at the flat, Boris, and I didn't really want to leave him on his own," Sherlock coldly murmured to the man as he brushed past the lawyer, seeing that false smile falter. Always fun making that happen. "Besides, he deserves to be here as much as I do. Hamish is family."

Sherlock went ahead into the man's office, setting the boy down so he could look around on his own while his Papa showed that even if it wasn't his place, he was the boss here. Mr. Addison came in and ruffled Hamish's hair, asking, "Do you want anything to drink? I can have my secretary get you a water or some soda. Or would you rather go and play a game with her?"

Before his son could say something polite back, Sherlock snapped, "No, I don't think he'd like to ‘play' with her. You do that enough already, don't you? Lipstick on your cheek that she's worn every time I've been here. Seems that you had a very productive lunch break. Now, I'd like some water myself. Hamish, do you want anything as well?"

"No," came his son's quiet voice, knowing it was caused by his angry wake.

Boris's cheeks were pink, but he slowly nodded his head, excusing himself from the room. Hamish knew what Sherlock had done and he gave him a look with raised eyebrows that usually was a silent scolding he got from John. Playing along, he shrugged his shoulders. That earned him a nice grin from Hamish as he came back to his Papa.

"If you have questions," he said, kneeling to look at him, "Go ahead and ask. And if he treats you like a child go ahead and use those deduction skills I know you have." Sherlock's thumb trailed over the boy's cheek. With a gentle tap to the skin with that same thumb, he was standing and using his other hand to lead Hamish to the chair to sit in.

He was a bit small for it -- his eyes barely saw over the top of the desk -- so Sherlock went and found a pillow that Hamish could sit on. That boosted him up enough to see over the table and put his hands on the top without it being too much of a stretch. They both sat in silence until Boris came back.

Wetness on the lawyer's face suggested that he had washed to get the lipstick off. Flush was gone luckily, so he knew some things were good between them. Sherlock took the glass from the man's hand, sipping it before putting it in front of his son -- Hamish was as bad as him with staying hydrated or eating enough if he wasn't reminded.

"So, we're going over John's will," Boris said, straightening his suit over his large stomach. "I got it pulled out this morning to see if everything was properly signed and dated. According to me, it is. Now, are we ready to go over it? Any questions before I start reading off the specifics of it?"

Silence was the answer for him

"First, he talks about money. The checks from the army obviously are going to you, one thousand pounds is going to his mother, Mrs. Joanna Watson-Holmes, and the rest is going to be given to Hamish for his account. Then he talks about how you can give out his possessions as it's seen fit. He then goes on to the funeral; there's nothing specific except saying that you two have talked about this together, specific as in where he's going to be buried. Is that true?"

He cleared his throat that felt completely thick from hearing those things he was memorizing on the spot. "Yes, we've talked about it."

"Good. He says that he wants a memorial done for the press. Then he goes on about what he wants to be buried with. I know that nothing is getting brought back of him--"

"We're going to have a casket lowered into the ground. Go on and tell me what he wants buried with him," Sherlock snapped.

Boris paused then nodded his head to go on. "Yes, of course. He really just wants a few pictures with him. One of your wedding picture, another of when the two of got your little boy, and another of just you and Hamish. He specifically said he wants the one that he took of you when at the aquarium."

How could he forget that picture? It had been few days before the man's deployment and John had wanted to go there. Sherlock had been in the otter exhibit with Hamish, pointing them out and kneeling beside him to teach him about the creatures he once had an obsession over. Next thing he had known was that there had been a flash, causing him to look and see John grinning with the camera still raised.

Sherlock was going to have to get those developed for the funeral and memorial now.

"Is there anything else in there," he asked, voice now soft.

"No," Boris answered, "Nothing more. I can make a copy of this for you." 

"I'd like a copy."

He watched as the lawyer got up to do that, or, at least, got his secretary to. He waited for him to get back with the copy then said, "We're going to go. I'd like to get Hamish some lunch in him. See you another time, Boris."

Sherlock stood, taking the paper from the man's hand -- he made sure to grab the original rather than the new -- with Hamish hurrying on after him out of the building and onto the London streets. He handed the papers to Hamish. "Don't let those out of your sight," he ordered as they went towards Café Rouge.

Once there, they were immediately seated. Hamish got water and the pork sausages -- always his favorite that he would eat a good amount of -- while Sherlock got water as well and their penne pasta -- red sauce with goat cheese. Next to the boy, he was quiet, even when their food came and they began eating. The only noise was his son's legs swinging steadily under the table as Sherlock thought over what he needed to get done.

Then Sherlock's mobile began vibrating in his pocket.

With a sigh, he pulled it out, seeing that it was a call from Greg. He had to take another deep breath before answering it.

"What is it," he dully asked, pushing around his food on the plate.

There was an exasperated huff of air on the other line. "Have you told anyone about John that wasn't on a need to know basis? Give me a straight answer."

"No. Why?"

Sherlock felt as if he had frozen. The fork dropped to the plate, knowing the answer he was going to get was going to be something he dreaded.

"We've been getting calls about news that John might be dead from various magazines, tabloids, and newspapers, not to mention news stations," the DI explained. "We sent a patrol car by your flat and saw that some familiar faces were gathering. Now, are you sure you haven't told anyone that would tip them off?"

Anger immediately welled up in him, showing through the now harsh sound of his voice, "I told our lawyer when I went to get the will. It had to be him. He was gone for far too long when getting us water."

"Where are you?"

"Irving Street, Café Rouge."

"A squad car will be there in ten minutes."

Without saying goodbyes, they hung up. Hamish was looking at him, wordlessly handing over the documents they truly needed to keep from the grabby hands of the paparazzi, who would take anything they could. It got folded up and put on the inside of his jacket. Moments later he made eye contact with the waitress and waved her over.

"We're going to need to-go boxes and the check," he quietly told her.


	7. Chapter 7

The boxes arrived and he placed their food in them right away, the fork scraping over the plate as he smiled over to his son. Hamish’s head was tilted to the side, those deep blue eyes that reminded him so much of John glued to his face. He plainly knew that something bad was going on that definitely went against plans. And his Papa, Hamish as well, hated when his plans were changed or ruined for him. Everyone in London had to know as well since he tended to shout when it happened.

Sherlock allowed a sigh as he sat there index fingers steepled to his mouth, pondering what was going to happen. There was an unexpected noise of someone bustling to them that called for his attention. “Alright, up you two,” Greg ordered, picking up their food for them. “We’ve got to get going so we can get there before more reporters swarm your flat.”

“How many were out there when you last checked,” the consulting detective questioned, standing up. He went across the table to pick up Hamish, propping him up on his hip without a care. The little boy visibly looked nervous; he hated the paparazzi as much as his Papa did.

“About ten were out there when the last patrol car did a casual pass by. They were setting up cameras. I’m sure more will be there when we show up.”

Greg put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, ushering him from the restaurant in an all business fashion. No one argued about paying for the food seeing that the police were taking two people out of there. He’d get Greg to do it since he doubted he’d get out anytime soon. The poor DI wasn’t going to get anything done in the meantime if Sherlock had his way with it.

A squad car was waiting for them with another officer driving. The door got opened for him and he slid in, keeping Hamish on his lap who immediately buried his face into his shoulder. The boy knew the drill for this. Over his four years of life, he’d done this multiple times. Hide his face in one of his parent’s shoulders while they’d carry him and make sure pictures of his face weren’t taken. Even now he was doing it just to play it safe.

Hamish also did that simple action because he hated loud noises and bright flashes. It brought on stimulation that was far more than he could handle, resulting in some kind of fit. Sherlock felt the same way about those things, but he couldn’t throw a fit like Hamish could, but he typically was on edge and could snap at anything that even brushed one of his nerves. It was a type of mood that only John could bring him out of.

The car stopped. Sherlock glanced out. Cameras were already clicking away. A police car really gave away who was coming out. Greg was the one to get out while SLoc waited in there, one hand gripping the soft fabric of the boy’s shirt. “Keep hidden,” Sherlock whispered, the other hand coming up to secure Hamish’s head to his shoulder. The boy’s hot breath warmed the area, leaving him feeling a bit comforted by it.

He looked over at the door as it opened, seeing Greg with a calm face. One hand touched his shoulder, bringing him out of his nerves as he got out. The flashes suddenly focused on him and he felt people reaching out with microphones or tape recorders to try to get his statement on what was going on.

“Is it true what they’re saying,” one shouted.  
“Any statement on what’s happened?”  
 _Click! Click!_  
“Sherlock, over here! How did he die?”  
“How are you feeling? Are you sad that he’s died?”  
 _Click!Click!_

It was all spiralling into one mess of stimulation and his eyes went around the people, seeing all of them with their bright and eager eyes to try to find out the latest gossip from the best source there was. All the consulting detective could do was trudge after Greg who was pushing a path for them through the crowd that swallowed up behind them. The only thing that got to him was when a photographer reached out and touched just a small portion of Hamish’s back.

There was a bright flash in his face right when he turned to look. A woman who was paired with the photographer opened her mouth to start asking something but now that they had dared to do something as idiotic as try to bring his son in it -- that was how he saw the touch -- and then take a picture of him, his fatherly instincts rose up and he felt ready to explode.

“Don’t you dare touch him,” he growled, eyes sharp and upper lip twitching as he reached out to grab the man’s wrist. Right away he twisted it expertly, causing a cry of pain to come from the stranger followed by the crash of his camera following to the ground. “Put this in your news: World Famous Consulting Detective Attacks Supposedly Innocent Photographer.”

When Greg began grabbing the arm of his jacket to get him to continue moving forward, Sherlock let go of the man and went to the front door. Right when he opened it, Mrs. Hudson was checking to see if they were alright. Behind the now closed and locked door, he could hear people trying to get in. Hamish was quiet, simply clinging to him as the desperate people tried to get in to get some kind of news about their personal lives merely because they caught the public’s attention.

He kept Hamish cradled in his arms as he went up the stairs to the warm flat. Still, the boy didn’t let go and Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to let go. Sherlock trusted that the boy would hold himself up so he would be able to use both hands to do more important things, such as locate John’s laptop. The living room was partially torn up by the time he found it where he had stored it after his last use.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

He glanced back to see the DI watching him with his arms over his chest. Clearly disapproving what he was about to do. Too bad, so sad.

“I’m going to type up what John would have typed up if something had happened to me. We decided, the two of us, that this would be the best way to allow the lc to know without having to do any of those conferences you’re so fond of. You’d have to pull one together after all. This puts less stress on me and less stress on you. When you think about it rather than scoff, it’s truly the best idea,” he explained.

Sherlock opened up the laptop and turned it on, easily hacking into it with the typical password John used. It wasn’t even creative. TwoTwoOneBravo. Anyone could guess that since most of London -- and the world -- knew of his Army background and where he resided. It was the same password for the blog that he got into.

He sat in his chair, moving Hamish slightly so he could set the computer on his lap. His son looked curiously at the screen. The short message John had left on the page to report about his deployment and how the blog wouldn’t be updated until he returned. It broke Sherlock’s heart about knowing that the cases wouldn’t get anymore publicity as they had. That sadness was far easier to deal with than the one that came after it, that John wasn’t going to be writing the blog. No more slow, one at a time key pecking that was terribly endearing. No looking over his shoulder and making a smug remark that earned him a loving kiss on the cheek. All of it was gone.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, glancing over at Greg, giving him a glare when he saw that the DI was seated in John’s spot. That wasn’t appropriate. Immediately, Lestrade got up from the place.

He opened up a box to type in for the post, huffing as he placed his fingers on the keys. His attention narrowed to only include the words he _had_ to write to give his husband a proper statement of his death and life. Less on the life and more on the death since everyone would focus more on the latter. He wanted to make the obituary before others got to it.

_Seeing that a rumor has gotten out over John Watson-Holmes’ death it is time for me, his husband, to address it. It is true. John passed away in Afghanistan by a bomb that he threw himself over to save the rest of his company._

_This is all I will say on the area concerning details of his death. I will not take any meetings or conferences. What is written here will all you will have to twist and turn whatever way it ends up becoming._

_A date has yet to be decided, but we will have a memorial so the public can pay their respects. I understand that he has made some kind of impact in running this blog, so I see it as necessary. The press may be there to document the event as they wish. Cameras are in that spectrum, but if you take any pictures of my son and publish them, I’ll personally make sure that you’re fired. Once the date is decided upon, I will put it up here so everyone who wants to come can. The location will be put up as well._

_After those things are posted, this blog will remain inactive. No new cases will be put up but the old ones will remain. If you have any complaints over that decision, keep it to yourself because no one cares about it who has a say in said decision._

_\-- Sherlock Watson-Holmes_

After a quick read through, he hit the post button that brought it to the blog. Immediately he closed the lid and set it off to the side, close to the fireplace. His eyes went to Greg. That disapproving look did nothing to him except bring up the stark memory of when he’d come back after the fall as a cocaine user all over again. The rehab for that had been the worst he could remember.

“Done then?”

“Yes, finished. All that I have to say is put up for the people to see from all over the world. It’s far easier than putting out a press conference where I’ll be forced to answer prying questions that the public has no right to know.”

The older man shook his head, standing up to lean casually against the mantle. One finger swiped over the wood absently. Dust collected on it that annoyed Sherlock far more than it should. Cleaning just wasn’t his forte.

Hamish hopped off his lap and went upstairs when he noticed an adult conversation was going to ensue judging from the deep tension in the room between the two middle-aged men. It was easy to forget that they weren’t young anymore for Sherlock. They had their own families, Greg’s children were long grown by now since they’d been young when Sherlock had been eighteen.

“I’m going to have to talk to your brother now,” the older man said as he stared at the wedding picture on the mantle, the one normal thing among the many oddities. “And he’s such a prat. Do you really think I want to deal with him when he’s _your_ brother?”

“What makes you think _I_ want to deal with him? Because he’s my brother, I have a lower tolerance for him. I believe that the last time we were all together proves that point,” Sherlock fired back.

“You mean that damn function we got dragged to because Mycroft’s associate wanted to thank you for helping him with locating his wife after she had disappeared without a trace?” There was already a smile on Greg’s face at the memory.

“That exact one.”

And that was when the DI began laughing. It was a hearty laugh, coming straight from his diaphragm, making it loud and it filled the whole room. Sherlock held his own urge a bit longer than Lestrade, but not by much. Soon his own deep laughter mingled as well. That had proven to be an interesting function, unlike all the others that he’d been to that his brother had hosted in the past.

As John told it -- and he had told it at any chance he could just to make Sherlock embarrassed; when the consulting detective grew embarrassed, the skin over his cheekbones turned a bright pink while the rest of his face stayed pale -- Sherlock had over indulged in the free champagne because of his dislike for the party he had gotten dragged to. From feeling quarrelsome, he decided to pick a fight with Mycroft. It had ended with him shoving some pastry into his brother’s face and shouting something about a childhood experience with Mycroft eating too much cake and getting him in trouble, so this little act was his revenge.

Lestrade and John never let him live it down while he and his brother attempted to forget the incident, swearing never to speak of it to each other again.

Even at mentioning it now, there was that embarrassed flush on Sherlock’s cheek bones that only made Greg chuckle more until Sherlock decided to shove his shoulders. The DI’s eyebrow went up and he shoved back. That action was repeated several more times until Greg finally made the next move to begin a child-like scuffle.

Sherlock’s heart wasn’t fully into the whole thing with the thoughts in his mind -- that being John doing this to Hamish to teach him to fight -- and soon Greg had gotten him into a headlock. He did struggle, biting his bottom lip to control himself from doing anything that might hurt the older man.

Thoughts of him being older were out of his mind when the grip on his neck tightened and Greg ordered, “Actually fight. I’ve seen you fight. Don’t let an old man beat you.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank nuttersandacorn for helping me beta this! I really appreciate her help and the supportive way she's done for my work.

_”Don’t let an old man beat you.”_

A growl came out at that. There was no way in hell he was going to let Lestrade beat him. His stomach twisted as he thought that _no one_ was going to beat him. Not these days. At the challenging words the DI said, Sherlock closed his eyes to figure out the way to go about this. In his mind a picture of the room materialized, including where they were. Just a few moments passed before his eyes snapped back open.

First, he stomped on the DI’s foot, grinding it into the ground for a distraction. Next, he struck Lestrade’s solar plex, a weak spot that was the same for every person. The arm loosened as an oof resounded through the room. While the point could still be breached, he grabbed the hand to rip it around so the arm was twisted, palm facing up to the ceiling.

Both of Sherlock’s thumbs pressed in the area around the middle knuckle. Lestrade’s arm was held straight as he put steady pressure on that area. The DI was feeling pain from the look on his face; a pressure that turned into sharp pain around the joint as the hand was pushed towards the wrist, an impossible position to achieve since the wrist had to break.

With fire in his eyes, he pressed until Lestrade was on his knees saying, “That’s enough! I’m done! You beat me.”

The words were rushed from the pain, so Sherlock, feeling the time was right, pressed harder for a split second then let go. Greg glared, sitting back on his heels while rolling his wrist to get the heavy ache away while Sherlock sat in his chair, one leg crossing over the other.

Of course he had beat Greg. He never lost.

“Let’s not do that again. I doubt the Yard would appreciate me injuring you and I would hazard a guess that your children wouldn't like it much if I hurt you,” Sherlock dully said.

 

Greg stood up. Sherlock watched, and ended up making a face when the man almost sat in John’s spot. It was far more acceptable when the man settled on the couch. “Both parties would disapprove of their old man trying to beat a young thing like you,” he teased with a wink tacked on at the end. “The kids remember you well enough from the wedding.”

Ah, the wedding. Fond memories from that day besides the part where he had tied the knot, as John called it, but also when he knowingly pissed off people just because he knew he wasn’t going to get into trouble for it. Yes, he had gotten to John with his actions, making the wedding nice primarily discussion filled.

During the course of that fateful day, he recalled meeting those three little Lestrades, with John pulling him around everywhere. They had to be young adults by now. Secondary school was about their ages when he had first met them seven years ago. John had been the one to remember them with cards on their birthdays. At least he recalled signing multiple cars for someone with the surname of Lestrade over that span of time.

Now he’d have to step up in John’s absence.

“Speaking of your children,” he added, pushing away the shot of surprisingly physical pain, “how are they?”

Greg seemed taken aback for a moment then recovered himself well enough to say, haltingly towards the beginning but smoother towards the end, “They’re doing just fine. Danielle’s out of Uni this year, heading into something to do with art. Peter will be on his second year of Uni while Dustin’s going into first. Nothing exciting about that.”

Danielle, Peter, and Dustin.  
At least he had their names after that dull monologue.

“Yes, he agreed, “Nothing exciting at all. How’s your ex-wife? Any interesting news on her?”

The key word was _interesting_. Anything that wasn’t he wouldn’t pay attention to. Greg was bristling already, probably remembering the day Sherlock had decided to inform him of his wife’s cheating habits. Not a good day for either of them as he remembered it. It had been John’s first Christmas party, and it had ended in a flop on all sides. The fateful PE teacher had done in the old Mrs. Lestrade.

“We don’t talk, Sherlock. That stopped when we divorced,” he stiffly stated. “All I know is that she’s doing okay according to Danielle. The kids still talk to her and Dustin still has to switch off between our houses per week.”

Divorce wasn’t something he understood completely. Certain legal aspects -- splitting of their children, women changing their surnames back to their maiden ones, and annulments -- he got while other things were a real mystery -- the court processes of all those things and how they came about to that end point. Criminal trials were his area, not this.

“I always liked her,” Sherlock commented to break that bit of silence, awkward thanks to their topic. “Nice and outgoing woman. Perfect for you... minus that adulterating bit.”

Again, Greg angered, teeth gritting. Time to change the subject before he decided to start up another fight. Sherlock began thinking quickly to attempt doing something better than asking for a case. He needed a case. It was a feeling of desperation, a plea to have something old and familiar -- more familiar than his husband -- to grasp onto so not to fall off over the edge of the world.

“Do you have anything planned for the funeral?”

Oh.

It was Sherlock’s turn to seethe. All at once grief, pain, and the empty feeling in his chest flowed through him like a whirlpool, sucking him down and confusing him more than before. His fingers grasped at the arm of his chair to find something to hold on to to keep himself locked in place and uninterested as always.

“We talked about where he was going to be buried. And I’m going to get a small casket to put the things he wanted buried with him,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Three pictures: their wedding photo, the three of them when Hamish was just born specifically for them, and the one of the aquarium. “You already know of the memorial and I was thinking about having a small funeral to get the rest of things going for close friends and family.”

Greg nodded his head slowly, sucking in on his cheek while he fidgeted with his hands briefly. “That sounds lovely. Maybe you could add some items to it, like a pair of his fatigues or even the Union Jack. I’m sure he would like that.”

No. Not what he wanted do. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, taking in a deep breath. No more. He didn’t want to think about that.

“I could be in charge of that bit,” the man suggested, picking up the signal Sherlock gave. “It’d good since you can’t leave the flat anymore with all that paparazzi pining for your attention.”

Joking.

 

Bad attempt.

Sherlock didn’t speak. His mind spun, the feeling of throwing up passing his mind... not just passing. It was going to become a reality. He moved faster than he thought he could with the way the room tilted. Bathroom. There. Lid opened and he emptied what little he had in his stomach to the water, listening to the splash it made.

His hands had a vice-like grip on to the toilet bowl, knuckles turning white with the intensity. The door was wide on and he knew someone was standing there. He didn’t have to look around to know who it was.

“Is Papa okay?”  
The voice was quiet, frightened. It even scared Sherlock as he hung his head down to smell the semi-clean smell of the water to attempt to calm himself down; Mrs. Hudson was the one who cleaned and she always was good at that.

“He’s fine. Go out to the living room. I’ll heat up your lunch so it’s warm for you.”

There was the sound of the turn of a heel that left him alone. He laid his head down to the lid and breathed in deeply, simply trying to gather air as he grounded himself again from the onslaught of emotions he never admitted to having.

Time washed over too soon, and there was a knock on the doorway. Larger footsteps trailed over to him, followed by a body right beside his, one that had seen him in this state a few times before, specifically when he was detoxing from another relapse to his old ways.

What he wouldn’t give for a hit, a simple taste of the drug that calmed yet excited him; that brought him up so high and then let him crash down to the depths of the ocean. Seven years sober and the drug still sound better than life. Danger nights was what they were called. John watched out for them because, he hated to say it, they came often enough. Now that he was alone, who would take care of him and make sure he didn’t ruin things?

Sherlock barely gathered that Greg had a hand on his shoulder, a comforting weight that he was used to after feeling it on numerous occasions that brought him away from dark thoughts. “It’s okay,” Greg whispered, the hand rubbing his shoulder lightly. It was close enough to a hug for him in his state.

His eyes were watery as he turned to the DI. “And how do you know?” he childishly questioned.

“Because I know you and you always bounce back.”

The two went silent after, and Sherlock looked down to the toilet once more. His deep breaths filled the room as he allowed the two of them to do what they really needed. Then he stood, the hand falling from his body. Calm again, he walked away from the place he had almost broke down, heading to the kitchen that was just a few feet from the bathroom. Hamish sat the table with the meal near him that he hadn’t gotten to finish at the restaurant, legs kicking back and forth while he munched.

The boy’s head turned to face him. Soon after his son had practically launched towards him, grabbing tightly onto Sherlock’s leg with his face pressed there.

“Are you alright, Papa? Uncle Greg says you are but I don’t believe him.”

Sherlock placed a large hand Hamish’s head to have another source of contact between them. “I’m fine,” he answered easily. “I just didn’t feel well so I went to the bathroom. Go ahead and finish eating.”

A shake of the boy’s head followed that.

“I’m leaving you two alone for now,” Greg said, walking from the bathroom with the brave face he got when ordering Sherlock to do something. Why he looked like that made no sense to Sherlock. “So you have to stay here. And if you leave it’s not going to be well,” the DI finished as he walked away from them. “You set a good example for your Papa, okay? I’m expecting not to come here and find something exploded.”

Hamish pulled away with a giggle -- perhaps amused that he was told to watch after an adult? -- to nod his head eagerly while those ever bright eyes peered at Greg in wonder and awe.

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock pouted, arms crossing over his chest tighter than he had meant. It caused a feeling of relief to rush through his body, ending the hole that wallowed in him.

“Then maybe you should act like an adult.” Greg grinned over his little attempt at a joke, earning a sarcastic sneer from Sherlock. Hamish got a wink and a mock “watch him” hand signal before the man had left completely, the noise of reporters hoping for something to feed on drifting up to him.


	9. Chapter 9

The door closed, blocking out the outside noises and Sherlock glanced to Hamish. He watched the smile fade off the boy’s face, that burst of joy gone in a flash. Fumbling for words, he looked to the ground for a moment. “I’m going to finish eating,” his son finally said, moving away to sit at the kitchen table. It automatically felt like Sherlock had done something wrong judging by the twisted feeling in his gut.

Sherlock couldn’t think of much more to do, so he walked through the kitchen to his bedroom, sitting on his messy bed with a book and reading glasses. The only thing that got him to stir from the engrossing plot was the feeling of a warm, small body nuzzling into him.

XXX

_Turn on John’s laptop. -GL_

The vibrating that had come with the message had roused him from a sleep he hadn’t realized he’d gotten. Hamish was curled beside him, the noise clearly not enough to wake him up. Sherlock carded his fingers through the dark hair that flopped over the boy’s peaceful face.

_What good would that do? -SH  
I have no interest in seeing the comments on the post I made. -SH_

_It’s not that, though all the comments on it are kind. John has a Skype account and I want you to call me on there. GL  
He has me as a contact. GL_

_Why? -SH_

_You’ll see. GL_

_If I get the laptop, Hamish might wake up. -SH  
He’s getting a good night’s sleep. He needs it. -SH_

_Please? GL_

_No. -SH_

_Worth a try. GL_  
 _John has headphones. GL_  
 _He keeps them near the laptop last I checked. GL_

That was something Sherlock could work with. He got up, careful to replace his body with a pillow for Hamish. Tip-toeing from the room, he located the headphones where it had been before he’d moved it, followed by the laptop itself. The headphones were right there. Both the laptop and headphones were items he had gotten John for some birthday; the original laptop had fallen apart and John, woefully, had thrown it away. The new one looked exactly like the old one, but had higher technology than the first.

John had learned everything all over again by the time he had gone on his third tour in Afghanistan. Hamish and Sherlock had used it to video chat a few times on important dates, mainly birthdays.

Sherlock plugged the headphones into the computer as he launched the program, seeing Greg’s name with a green dot. A message saying Greg wanted to video chat with him came up. Without thinking, he pressed the “ok” button.

The box popped up with some lame looking picture of Greg. Soon it disappeared to show the man himself leaning in close as if seeing if the thing was working. Anyone who knew Greg knew that the DI wasn’t technologically savvy. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the grinning man.

“Your hair is a mess.”

Each word was loud and Sherlock frantically turned the volume down so not to ruin his hearing. He glared at Greg still, unwavering in that look while the man chuckled absently to himself, clearly finding some humor in this. Poising his fingers on the keys, he type out his message, staring at the picture John had chosen for his icon.

[Get on with it, Lestrade, I haven’t got all day.]

It was of him and John. A private picture the man had taken while they laid in their private bed after consummating their marriage. There were no wrinkles on them, only smiles that later caused the faint laugh lines they both had. John was fit; no little pudge of a stomach developing as he had last been with him. Still wicked blond hair without a hint of grey there. young and in love, simply drinking in each of others presence like a cool glass of water.

“Afraid of waking up the little one? He sleeps heavy like John. We both know it.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered away from himself and John with the blankets around them to the almost concerned seeming detective inspector. “Sherlock, you okay? I can let you go if you want.”

[No, you already woke me up and, unlike my son, I don’t fall asleep that easily. Go on. What is it that’s so important? I truly have other things to focus on.]

“All right, all right. No need to get your knickers in a twist. I stopped by the Yard to get you some cold case files to tide you over while you’re stuck there. I arranged for someone to bring you Hamish’s work since I figured it’s going to be more than a week that he’ll be out.”

[You could have texted me that.]

“Too long. Besides, I have to try out using the laptop out of the house. It’s been a few years since I got it and I still haven’t tried something like this.” Greg leaned forward, this time his chest and stomach getting close to the camera, and said, “Pull over up here. Yes. There. I can walk the rest of the way.”

[And now you’re carrying your laptop around to talk to. I’m not entertained, Greg. Now, be a big boy and take care of all this business without me.]

Seconds later, Greg was laughing while holding the laptop in his arms. What a feat to see Gregory Lestrade bustling through the London streets holding a laptop like it was a child to simply talk to his acquaintance. “Hold on for a minute. I’ve got to get us somewhere.” A few mumbled “excuse me’s” followed him.

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, lighting the sharp angles up childishly. The DI couldn’t see him so he had that much more to be pleased about. He cleared the smile away quickly nonetheless.

[I’m not some child you can dismiss when you seem fit.]

“I said just a second, Sherlock. One more block until we’re there and I can see your message.”

[No. I’ll keep sending you messages.]  
[Just.]  
[To.]  
[Annoy.]  
[Y.]  
[O.]

Greg entered some store that immediately was hushed. A mix between an exasperated sigh and a laugh slipped out. “Fine. I get your point.”

[U.]  
[Now where have you taken me this time?]

“Since you can’t get out of the flat I thought I could get some of the stress off you with the funeral.” Already Sherlock felt himself paling at this conversation. “I’ve taken you to a funeral home to talk about getting a coffin. We could have it in his size to put things in that he wants. Either we could fill it at the funeral or decide to fill it beforehand.”

Oh. No words came to mind to describe this feeling. Sherlock drummed his fingers over the keys while nodding his head to signal his agreement. It kept bobbing up and down without an end in sight as Greg looked at him, his eyes darting over Sherlock’s face.

“If you want to stop, just tell me. We can always pick this up tomorrow.” 

An attendant scuttled up to them soon enough, quickly assessing the situation. “What can I help you two with?”

“We need a coffin for my friend’s husband. He passed away recently and we need a coffin.”

Obviously, Sherlock thought.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

[Enough with these formalities. I need a coffin with these measurements.]

The next message was the measurements that the older gentleman looked over, raising the glasses he had on a chain around his neck to his eyes. “Is there anything else you need in assistance, sir?”

[I’m looking for something in a dark wood. Cherry or rosewood preferably. And I need something that will fit his items, so those measurements should work.]

“Will your late husband be in there with them? If so, we may need to up those measurements and I’ll need to know what items will be in the coffin with him. Also, our home offers a wonderful service for taking care of the bo--”

[I won’t be utilizing your service. Sadly, my husband passed away due to a bomb exploding on him in Afghanistan. All I need is a coffin and a delivery service to bring it on the day of the funeral, a date yet to be decided.]

The man did nod, showing that he could comply with this. No questions or comments about his rudeness surface -- the man had to deal with ruder customers in this profession of death -- though Lestrade looked at him like he had cursed at the Queen.

“Of course, sir. If you would just pick up the laptop I’d be happy to show you our selection of coffins for his build. Might I ask what you plan to put in it?”

[No you may not.]

“We’re going to put some picture sin along with some other items,” Greg cut in. “We’re still deciding what exactly will go in there, but if needed we can tell you when we decide completely.”

 

“No, sirs,” a quick glance to Sherlock’s affronted face, “Apologies for bringing the topic up. My plan wasn’t to in the least, and there is no need to know so long as the items will fit. Now, if you’d just follow me.”

Dutifully, Greg carried the laptop while the anger melted off Sherlock. He glanced over the coffins popping up left and right. With his left hand, he gripped the sheets tightly, unsure that he could face this battle. Without John by his side he was completely unsure.

The man moved aside to show off the caskets there. Greg also began showing them off for Sherlock’s approval. The were either too dark or too light for this. finally he typed for Greg to pause on a deep red wooden one, one that looked his husband’s size.

[There. That one.]

At once the whole process sped up; the shop owner starting to go over what they’d need to do for the funeral to get it where it needed to go, the spat between he and Greg about paying for it, and the profuse thanks Greg gave to the older man for giving them his time this morning.

Lestrade left the store to go sit at a deserted bench around the bustling city. Since it was loud, he opted to type rather than speak.

_[That wasn’t so bad, was it?]_

[It was pointless. I could have told you want I wanted through texting]

_[But then you wouldn’t have seen them.]_

[Picture messages.]

_[You’re so difficult.]_

[Am not.]

_[Are so.]  
[I swear you are five years old and only getting younger as the years go by.]_

[And what does that make you?]

_[Your babysitter.]_

“Papa?”

Sherlock glanced down to see that the little boy’s sleepy face was looking up at him, clearly confused about why Daddy’s laptop was out and why Sherlock was even on it. He leaned down to kiss Hamish’s forehead. “It’s okay. I’m just talking to Uncle Greg. We’re getting done talking now.”

[Hamish is up. Talk to you another time.]

Not waiting for a goodbye, he ended the call then closed the laptop lid. “Let’s get you a bit of breakfast. What are you hungry for?” Sherlock got up then picked his son up who seemed to want to simply get carried around. The legs wrapped around his waist, followed by the arms around his neck.

Thirty minutes later he was back to his room so he simply could grab a couple of things from his bedroom for entertainment while Hamish watched some cartoon. His mobile was blinking so he picked it up, checking for what could be on it.

_Have a nice day. GL_  
I’ll stop by later to give over the cases. GL  
Oh and tell Hamish hello for me. GL  
Sorry, I’ll stop texting you now. Probably being a dolt as you would say. GL 

Sherlock smiled at the messages but didn’t respond to them. Book in hand, glasses on face, he left the room behind. At least that had cheered him up some.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Taylor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NuttersandAcorn/) for being my beta!

After hard work on getting everything properly organized, the memorial was happening. Slight fear fluttered in Sherlock’s stomach, preventing him from eating dinner with Hamish, an event that probably would have been a silent one anyways. It was the night before and the two Watson-Holmes were equally nervous.

Dinner had finished a bit ago, leaving both their plates barely touched. The food had gotten scraped into the trash, what leftovers in the pan following it. He had attempted cooking something John had often made often enough, a vegetable stir fry. Only, it hadn’t turned out anything like John would have made.

There was no joyful bit of prancing around the kitchen to tend to everything or the humming John sometimes did to substitute silence if he was along while doing it. No questions about school to Hamish to talk to Sherlock about things that needed to get done. No stolen kisses, snuck between the sizzling pans. The remembrance of those little things taken for granted almost made him crumble.

Hamish had gone up to his room to grab some book -- Sherlock figured it was something _Harry Potter_ related since lately that was all his son read -- when there came a knock at the front door followed by the ringing of the doorbell. Before Mrs. Hudson could get it, he went to it.

Greg stood there, an unopened bottle of red wine and a yellowed case file in his hand. A lopsided grin happened to be stuck on his face. “Thought you might enjoy something like this tonight,” he explained before walking in.

“You were right,” Sherlock murmured. He hadn’t even had the chance to really give an answer, but it wouldn’t hurt having one last night before facing all the people who would be documenting this sad event. Turning on his heel, he closed and locked the door, heading upstairs to see if Greg was getting wine glasses out.

The distinct noise of glass hitting glass rang in his ears. “Cold case I brought has been there longer than I have,” the DI called out from the kitchen. “Thought it would might be a nice challenge to solve together.”

“Who says I’m going to let you help me?” teased Sherlock. He heard the cork popped out and called, “Remember to let it breathe!”

“Too late.”

Greg came out a few moments later with two glasses almost filled to the brim with the rich, burgundy color of the wine. “Looks good,” Sherlock commented, taking the offered glass before having a quick sip. A cheaper wine from the taste, something that was probably bought at a petrol station. “Tastes decent too.”

“Maybe you should have let it breathe more and it would taste great,” Greg taunted, lowering himself down to the couch, his now usual place to settle when he came to the Watson-Holmes residence. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re only fifty-six,” Sherlock said as he sat beside the DI. His glass of wine went on the coffee table in front of them so he would have his hands free for the case.

“Yeah. _Only_ ,” Greg scoffed.

“What’s this one about?”

Just after the question, Hamish came traipsing down the stairs, pausing only to smile at his Uncle Greg since the man had turned into a staple at the flat, before going to settle in John’s chair, book and pencil in hand. Only Hamish could use the chair like that.

“It’s a Jane Doe case. Some girl turned up in the streets completely naked. Face bashed in and no DNA match in the system after we’ve done several run throughs of it over the years in some attempt to get it solved. No way to identify her, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more.” Greg glanced to Hamish after his speech with a wink.

They both knew what was going to happen. Sherlock silently opened the file that was yellowed with age, bypassing the write ups of the case to the coroner’s report and pictures of the crime scene. All he needed were those things.

This one took an hour with the sparse information and little forensic evidence on the body besides a few fingerprints that were too smudged to be of any use. “Her pimp probably did it. She was probably with a client and he came up and killed her. I suggest that you look at witnesses and track down the man who was supposed to guard her.”

Case handed back. A sip of wine. Greg gave a smirk at him.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” The DI drank from his own glass as well. “I think that I’m going to leave you now. Keep the wine. We might need it another time if I decide to come over with another case. I suggest that you two get to sleep as well. You’ll have a bigger day tomorrow than I will.” Greg stood and went to Hamish, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Keep your Papa in line. I know I can count on you.”

After a quick ruffle of the little boy’s hair, Greg went from the living room to the streets without another word. Sherlock sighed and took care of the wine -- downing the dregs of both glasses -- before turning to his son. “Time for bed. Let’s get you dressed in your pyjamas.”

“Papa,” the soft voice murmured, “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“Of course you can.”

XXX

For the night, Sherlock tossed and turned the best he could. The way Hamish held on to him made it a bit difficult. That didn’t matter so long as the little boy was sleeping. At the proper time, he woke Hamish with a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll make you something for breakfast,” he murmured in a voice roughened by sleep. Getting up, he plucked his son from the bed.

“I was thinking an eggie-in-the-basket. Sound good?” The nod was enough for him to make the food with Hamish sitting at his usual spot on the table. “Remember to stay near me today. I don’t want to lose you.” The press would swallow the boy up, not to mention plaster pictures of him everywhere, despite Sherlock’s request for him to stay out of that. That thought fueled him on as he fixed the meal to set down in front of the boy, who immediately tucked in.

As soon as he finished, Sherlock got him ready in the outfit they had fitted him with especially for the memorial and funeral. They were a few days apart. When planning, he thought it would be best to have them at a gradual pace even if they had put it off enough thanks to the press.

Gently, Sherlock straightened up Hamish’s little suit -- he hoped he’d never have to see his son in this again -- then got himself ready. It was in the nick of time since Greg came in unannounced a few moments after he finished.

“You two ready?” he asked. The DI had on a suit that Sherlock recognized as the suit Greg had worn for his and John’s wedding, only with a black dress shirt instead of a white one.

“Yes,” Sherlock intoned dully. “Ready.” Only, he felt that he wasn’t even close. The speech he had to give had never been prepared, so he figured he’d wing it the best he could. At least they were dressed and awake.

Greg beat him to picking up Hamish to carry. The three were joined by Mrs. Hudson to ride in the police car. Already, their landlady was crying, clasping an old lace handkerchief in her hand, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes. “It will be fine,” Sherlock said in as soothing a voice he could manage over the nerves that filled him.

“I should be the one saying that to you,” she whispered hoarsely, placing a hand on his cheek with one of her sad smiles. “I’ve had to do this twice now. Once with you and now with John. No mother should have to bury her sons.” There were no arguments from anyone in the car about how they weren’t her sons. No one would dare do that to Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock wouldn’t allow it one moment.

Hamish moved from Greg’s lap to Mrs. Hudson’s, putting his arms around her neck to hold her tightly. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “It’ll be okay.” Sometimes, Sherlock marveled that his son was even close to being raised by him.

Upon arrival, Sherlock took Hamish back. “Keep your face hidden in my shoulder. They won’t take your picture that way.” The boy was practically trembling, containing whatever it was that he felt. Greg touched Sherlock’s shoulder before opening the door to the onslaught of people who clambered to get a piece of this scene in Regent’s Park.

There was no respect in the crowd, no kindness towards the grieving people stepping from the car. Hamish clung to him as cameras flashed, people spoke, and video cameras followed them from news stations, even mobiles that tried to catch second of them. “Count down from one hundred to one,” he whispered to the boy, rubbing his back in the attempt to protect him. “We’ll be there by the time you finish,” he promised.

Sherlock could hear the boy doing that against his neck, mouthing each number. Acting brave enough for himself and his son, he went up the stairs and heard the boy murmur, “A hundred,” as he passed him off to Mrs. Hudson, who earnestly was crying now.

The microphone was there waiting for him, the crowd still making noise that crashed against him like a wave would to the sea shore. Greg stood between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, closer to the latter since he hadn’t moved yet. “Go on. I’ll be right here if you can’t go on,” he prompted, touching Sherlock’s shoulder with a reassuring smile. The thought that Greg was there to help him with the public, just as he had done with John for years, gave him just enough courage to do so.

It loomed closer, the damned inanimate object, as he did. “I’d appreciate it if you’d all shut it now.” Behind him he already heard Greg sighing, the rough hand passing over his face to rub over it. But, the crowd did hush. “I’m up here today to talk about my husband, yet what can I say that you don’t know? John... was the best omen. He watched out for people down to his last moment on earth.

“One thing I hope he will be remembered by is that he was a great husband and an even better father. He loved his family with all his heart. Anyone he was close to could see that. And he loved the people he was close to just as much. That never faltered once, as his will to protect them. John defended the ones he loved. He was willing to sacrifice himself for the good of everyone else.

“The blog that has documented our lives together and the cases we took will stay up. I’m sure that’s what he would have wanted. Cases may be documented, only not as well as he did them. I’m sure all of you know by now that I am not as well spoken.” Only then did he pause, taking in a deep breath as he controlled himself the best he could, pushing back anything he wanted to express in that moment. “I suppose I should thank you all for being here, for showing that other people will remember him as the great man who he will live on as. All of you were hoping for a more heartfelt speech, but the last thing you will do today is put down your cameras for a few moments and give the man the respect that he deserves rather than documenting all this for the enjoyment of the public. They’ll get their fill of this by the time you end up running down the story at every possible angle until no one cares anymore.”

He fell silent himself, surveying the crowd with sharp eyes as people went in the same direction he had. Finally, he lowered his head in that proper way. Each second made this even more real to him, an extra stab in the heart from a hidden knife. Whoever said that this gave closure was wrong. Sometimes, it felt like he forgot John would never come home again. “Thank you for your time,” he murmured into the microphone with a gruff voice. Motioning with his head, Greg knew it was time to go.

This time, no one was overly loud in their passing. Pictures were taken and video cameras trailed after them, but that was all. Greg looked bright on the way back, but sadness etched deep lines in his eyes. Mrs. Hudson took Hamish inside 221, fussing over how Hamish looked like he hadn’t eaten a proper meal while the DI got out with Sherlock.

“You didn’t have a speech written, did you?” Lestrade asked.

“I tried, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. What could I say to them that they would understand?”

“Hey,” Greg stopped Sherlock from walking inside with a hand on his forearm. “It’ll be okay. The funeral will go just as well.” The two looked over each other before Greg pulled him in closer for a warm hug that almost made the consulting detective forget how to be composed. Promptly, Greg let go and climbed into the police car before Sherlock had a chance to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on this. I've been busy with work and I haven't had the urge to write for any of my actual fanfictions that have chapters. So, here it is, and with the school year starting soon I hope to be more on a schedule of writing!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Taylor](http://nuttersandacorn.tumblr.com/) for editing this up for me!

Morning. Sherlock automatically hated it. The sun shone through the window, lighting his bedroom up. How dare it shine on what was bound to be the third worst day of his life, after finding out John’s initial death and before the jump from St. Bart’s. Hamish’s body pressed up against him, warm in the semi-darkness. It was the only thing holding him together.

From downstairs he heard the door open, followed by Mrs. Hudson’s voice. The only person who could be at the door was Greg, coming to check that he was getting up and ready, along with Hamish. He nudged his son as he sat up. “Time to wake,” he told his son, rubbing the boy’s back. “Another day.”

“It’s not a good day because we’re burying Daddy.” Blunt and to the point in one grumble, making Sherlock sigh softly. His hand only continued moving over the expanse of Hamish’s back. “Will Granma be there?”

Mrs. Watson. “Yes. She will.” They weren’t on the best of terms with the decisions he’d made -- he and John had made -- for John’s funeral, with being buried in the same area Sherlock had been in before he had come back. “She’ll be happy seeing you today. She’ll probably talk about how big you’ve gotten since she last saw you.” A weak giggle came out of Hamish’s mouth. That was enough for him.

“Sherlock? Hamish? You two better be up and getting ready to go. It starts in an hour,” Greg shouted, walking through the flat towards the bedroom where he guessed the two Watson-Holmes would be. Knocking once, he cracked the door open to see if they were "all decent" as that old saying went. “Still in bed? Come on, get dressed then we can get something to eat for the both of you.”

“I haven’t gone shopping so there’s no food in the fridge,” Sherlock said in a strained voice, beginning to get up from the bed. “Good luck finding anything good in there.”

“Mrs. Hudson shops. Already talked to her about taking some of the food she has to whip something up.” Greg had that wide smile on his face. Damn him for being on top of things and knowing it. Must have shown on his face. “Go on. Get ready, and we can start with a breakfast. I expect a few bites each. You need something in your stomachs.”

The DI left the door open. “Run upstairs and we can start dressing you. Just get your suit and bring it downstairs,” Sherlock murmured. Hamish started getting up, going to the door. “Don’t forget the shoes and tie,” he shouted after him. Once the boy was gone, he started getting himself together as well.

Each movement was slow. Sherlock got halfway undressed when his son came back, clothes crumpled up in his arms. Not ironed, but one rumpled mess. John’s mother wouldn’t be happy. Complaining would come, followed by requests that he couldn’t give into. Damn her. It pained him, but he said nothing as he started dressing Hamish. Keep his mouth shut and it might turn out fine.

“There,” he murmured, smoothing the wrinkled sleeves down. “You look good. Daddy would love seeing you like this. He would be so proud of you for being a strong boy, just like I’m proud of you.” Sherlock ruffled the dark hair that flopped every which way.

“Breakfast’s ready!”

And there it was. Sherlock smoothed down the hair he had previously messed up, and murmured, “Let’s go. I’m sure he made something good.” He had to make sure Hamish kept his weight up. Mrs. Watson would raise hell. He led his son to the kitchen where the heavy smell of food was.

Sherlock was right about the heaviness; sausage was cooking on the stove, and he could see fried eggs on a plate nearby. Toast popped up a moment later. He shook his head at the sight. “Thought you would do something light,” he commented, snatching up a napkin to rest over his son’s lap. No need adding food to the wrinkles.

“Never said that,” Greg retorted, setting three plates down at the table. Two sausages, one egg, and one slice of toast on each plate. “I only said I’d make breakfast for you two. Honestly, I think I did a good job with it. Remember, you promised a few bites of the food. That means a few bites of each item on the plate.”

Even if Sherlock didn’t eat meat, he’d have some of the eggs since he liked them best. Sherlock sat down and moved to put his sausage on Greg’s plate. “I’ll eat more of this instead of the sausage,” he explained. Immediately he saw Greg remembering his tendencies, regret showed. A silent apology. He gave a nod as an acceptance of it.

Hamish already was digging in, cutting in the yolk of the egg so it ran over the plate, sopping it up with the sausage and toast. That perked Sherlock up, seeing him happy enough to eat. The sadness would end soon. He went on with his own food, keeping his eyes on the little boy. Seeing Hamish was enough to make him feel better too.

Greg poked him under the table with a foot. “You’re eating quite a bit. First time I’ve seen you go after this much in one sitting.” Sherlock glanced down to see that most of his food was gone. Oh. He could go for more. And he did; he finished up the rest of his food. Hamish only had a few bites left when he decided to finish. Unlike them, Greg ate the least amount of food.

“Grab what you’re going put with Daddy,” he told his son. The cold settled in his chest like a brick. he glanced down a moment later when Hamish went to get the item. Sherlock stood up a moment later. “I’ll do the dishes later. You don’t have to clean it up.”

The DI almost wanted to argue, but he didn’t. “I’ll be in the living om. Come on when you two are ready.” Greg walked out a moment later, leaving his chair pushed away from the table. Shakily, Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair.

He soon went and retrieved the pictures that had been put in John’s will, running his fingers over the glossy surface of the first one. When he got to the living room, Greg was holding Hamish, and an old book, in his hand. “I brought a squad car so we could get there faster.” The book was passed to him to carry. Glancing at the cover, he recognized it at once: Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. The copy John had given Hamish back when he had been looking for something to read, something far above any reading level a three year old should be at. John had gotten it at some used book store to give it a try so Hamish wouldn’t complain as much about how bored he was. Something he had learned to do from his Papa.

Greg was the one who carried Hamish downstairs and put him into the backseat where Sherlock joined him. His son looked out the window as Greg began driving them off, ignoring his father’s gaze. “Are you sure you’ll want to put this in there?” he asked, glancing down at the book, “You won’t be able to get it back once you do.”

Sharp eyes turned to look at him. “Daddy would want it,” Hamish said angrily. “He deserves to have it since he got for me.” Little did his Papa know that in the back of the book he had written a letter to Daddy to ask him some things. Was he okay? Did he miss them, because they missed him. If he’d ever get to see him again. Papa didn’t need to know about something that was between him and Daddy.

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered. Today wasn’t the day to argue with his son about things. “If you want another copy we can go out sometime after school to buy one.” He rested his hand on his son’s shoulder before pulling him towards his body. “Remember that I love you, because I love you very much, just like Daddy did.”

Except, he was afraid that Hamish didn’t know that. He knew Hamish could easily treat this like it was Sherlock’s fault. That terrified him. He didn’t want to lose his son like he lost his husband. He ran his long fingers over the fabric of his suit to make sure it fell smoothly over his body.

“I love you, too, Papa,” Hamish whispered.

When they arrived, Sherlock wanted to leave again. A few people were already there. Molly in a slimming black dress, eyes already red-rimmed and cheeks blotched. Mrs. Watson was there as well, prim-looking in a neat outfit. One thing he noticed was that she didn’t seem particularly sad. No tears. Eyes only for Hamish when Sherlock carried him out of the car, giving the book back to his son. “There you are,” the woman said, walking forward with her arms outstretched.

“Granma,” Hamish said, holding his arms out right back. No choice but to give him over. She immediately began fussing over his appearance. From behind, Greg touched his arm. Leave it, that touch told him. Leave it be. He was a good parent and Mrs. Watson had no one else to mother now that her son and husband were dead.

She never had truly accepted her children whom liked the same gender, so Harry, Clara, and himself had never been favored much. It was probably lucky that Mrs. Watson liked Hamish as much as she did.

Molly came and without warning wrapped her arms around his neck. Soon he felt tears on his skin. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “You should be the one crying. John was your husband --”

“And your friend,” Sherlock mumbled back. He wiped at his neck with a glance over at Mrs. Watson. Mrs. Hudson, running late, was over with Mrs. Watson, red eyes and a dress on that he recognized as the one she had worn for his own funeral.

“Remember that Angelo’s son is holding a little get together after the funeral,” Greg reminded before walking off to greet a few people.

Some went straight into the church where the funeral would take place. Sherlock, on the other hand, waited outside, greeting John’s old school mates and people he had been with in Afghanistan. Most of them told him how good of a bloke John was or how the rest of his company would miss him. How could Sherlock say that he already knew that and that he missed John? He didn’t. He nodded his head in agreement, numbly pointing towards the church to give others direction.

The front row was open for family. And with such a small church the ceremony was held in, there wasn’t much room around. Greg hadn’t thought of that when he invited all these people. More people had shown up than he had personally thought. At least he wasn’t wedged between people. The pew only held three people; he and Mrs. Watson on one end with his solemn son between them. He pressed a light hand to his son’s leg throughout the sermon.

This wasn’t the way he had wanted this to go, but he, for once, didn’t complain. John’s final wishes were carried out. Then it would be over for them. They could move on and Sherlock could quit this grieving process.

“Meet us outside in thirty minutes to join in placing objects in the casket and lowering it into the earth,” the priest said, giving them all a grave look. Murmurings broke out after and he heard the door swinging shut. When he glanced back, Greg was already gone.

“Let’s get outside,” he murmured to Hamish, picking him up soon after. “I think Uncle Greg might like some help with making sure everything goes right.” Didn’t mean he wanted to help as well. He started leaving with Hamish in his arms, going into the cool air.

As he had expected, Greg was directing things. Always the one to take on responsibilities for friends. That’s what Greg was to them. A family friend. Only, he heard footsteps behind him. “Sherlock!” He turned. Mrs. Watson, coming after him on uneven ground. High heels never went well in this environment. “Could we have a conversation?” she asked, giving a too obvious glance to Hamish. Not allowed then.

“Tell Greg I’ll be there in a moment. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your book.” After a kiss to Hamish’s temple, he set the boy down so he could scamper off. “What is it about?” he asked Mrs. Watson, voice cooling.

“I just want to make sure you and Hamish are okay. His suit looked wrinkled. Are things fine at the flat?” She disguised her real want to have Hamish to herself with concern. How very her.

“Hamish and I are fine. The suit got put on the floor after the memorial and it became wrinkled. Now, I need to check if--”

“I could take him off your hands for a few days if you’d like. It might be nice for you to have time to yourself even just for a few days.” He cut her off with a shake of his head. There was no way that would happen. “Consider it. Please. I’ve lost both my children.”

“No, only one,” he snapped. “Your daughter is alive and well.”

In a wavering voice, she whispered, “There are other ways to lose children.” After a pause, she added, “I’ll go over to the grave.” Her hands went out to her sides, fingers spread to help balance herself.

He swallowed hard, glad he was alone. Absently, he flipped through the worn book for something tangible. On the last page, the back where there was free space, he read some of his son’s twisted handwriting. A letter. It registered as private, but he saw just enough to guess what the contents would be. Curiosity was sparked despite that. Another day he would ask, but once this was through.

“It’s going to start. We were waiting for you,” Greg said once he got there, a hand automatically resting on his forearm.

The objects were placed in. The pictures from Sherlock. A British flag. Baby pictures of John and his sister. A picture of John with Molly. A couple random pictures John in his time in Afghanistan; fatigues strapped on, gun against his back, the patch on a shoulder to show he was medic. In all the pictures he saw that same lopsided grin he had come to love.

Letters were stuck in, wedging along the pictures. The book was placed in last. It set on top, worn and torn. Sherlock saw the strength in his son’s back and picked him up once the book was in. Too young to act like he had seen battle. Far too young.

People milled around once the coffin had been lowered in. The gravestone was already in place, reading off the matter-of-fact dates of birth and demise. Very little people came up to him a second time save the people who already knew him well. Mrs. Hudson went back to 221A so she could contribute food to the provided food at Angelo’s. Mrs. Watson approached again. “If you would like to stay longer, I’ll take Hamish to that restaurant. Getting a cab will be no problem.” Hopeful eyes bored into him. He gave his son over to them.

“I’ll see you later,” Sherlock told him, voice so firm that it became a promise. His eyes stayed on Hamish until he was out of sight. Quietly, he turned back to the stone, sensing that Greg was still there. He wasn’t touching him anymore, but still there.

One arm wrapped around his shoulders now. “It’s over,” Greg murmured, leading him away. “You can start moving on now.” Greg was right. He could move on no matter how much that hurt. He had Greg there. The DI carried on. “If you need me, you know I’ll be there. I’m sure Hamish would like having me around some more.” They both knew that Greg was more like John than Sherlock would ever be. But Greg wasn’t as sarcastic, couldn’t be with his job catering to the public as he did. The arm around him squeezed. “You’re doing fine, just over thinking things.”

They stopped at the squad car so Greg could look at him carefully. “I’ll make sure you have more cases. How ‘bout that?”

“Yeah. That sounds good,” Sherlock murmured back.


	12. Sorry

I'm very sorry to all you lovelies that follow this fanfiction. I won't be continuing to write this.


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